Once Upon a Summer
by razztaztic
Summary: A post-S7 finale fic. Eighteen weeks, that's how long they were apart. Eighteen long weeks.
1. A Gift From Max

_AN: This is a post-S7 finale fic and contains no spoilers for S8. It's just me and the voices in my head and they don't know shit about what HH&Co. have planned for us in the fall (unless I'm very, very lucky and accidentally get something right). _

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* * *

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He picked up his car from the repair shop the next day, avoiding the "How did that happen?" question by simply ignoring it. The harsh lines carved into his face after a sleepless night haunted by nightmares did not encourage the mechanic to repeat the inquiry.

He was at the third stoplight on his way . . . somewhere . . . anywhere but the empty house he'd left that morning . . . when a simple look in his rear-view mirror, a glance he'd taken only because more than 30 years of driving made such an action more habit than thought, broke through the fragile walls of self-control he'd managed to erect.

One small flicker of eye movement.

One tiny adjustment to his level of vision and there it was. The curve of a handle. And suddenly, he couldn't see anything else.

Her car seat.

Empty.

Buckled in because he'd . . .

. . . he didn't know why he'd secured it in its usual place.

He didn't remember doing it.

He just had. He just had, goddammit, because that's what you did with an infant's car seat. You buckled it in and you shook it a little bit to make sure it was secure and then you tugged the seat belt again, one last time.

Because she was his daughter and even though she was only a few months old, already he couldn't remember life without her.

Because when he tried to breathe through a chest squeezed in a vise of guilt and worry, the air around him was tinged with the scent of baby powder.

And Brennan's perfume.

The car behind him honked loudly and without thinking, he slammed his foot on the gas and peeled through the intersection, leaving the smell of burned rubber drifting in his wake. The next light turned yellow as he approached; instead of slowing down, his foot hit the gas again as he whipped the car to the right and took the turn on two wheels.

He drove without stopping. If the light was green, he went straight. If it was red, he turned right. If a car in front of him slowed down, he swerved around it with an angry squeal of tires.

And kept going.

He drove until he left the city behind and there was nothing for miles ahead of him but road and farmland and more road. When he couldn't see past the tears that wouldn't spill . . . because he would not cry - he WOULD NOT cry . . . he pulled over, brakes screaming, dust and gravel flying. He threw the car into park and thrust himself out before the tires even stopped rolling, slamming the door hard enough to crack the tiny side window . . . and wouldn't that be a bitch to fix! he snarled silently.

Angry, worried . . . terrified beyond anything he'd ever experienced before, he picked up a large chunk of rock and flung it as he screamed into empty air. Then, because he could, he yelled again. His face red, the muscles in his neck standing out painfully, he gave voice to his fear and frustration and impotence, throwing rock after stone after bits of gravel, again and again and again, leaving dirty smears behind when he brushed away the tears he'd sworn he wouldn't shed, roaring until his throat was raw and his shoulder ached and there were no more rocks to throw. Finally spent, he bent over, hands on his knees, shoulders heaving, forcing air in and out.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

He barely heard it, that small melodic chirp. Three notes. Maybe four.

His head lifted with a snap and then he was at the car, flinging open the door, kneeling in the dust and dirt and broken pavement, searching under the floormat and under his seat and under the passenger seat and . . .

Taped beneath the steering wheel, under the dashboard, he found it.

A phone.

He ripped it free, swearing when he tore a fingernail to the quick.

_We're safe. I love you. I'm sorry._

Oh, God. He sat on the hot asphalt, his back against the car.

_bones? baby? _His fingers felt both boneless and thickly solid and refused to move as swiftly as he wanted them to as he struggled with the unfamiliar keys.

_Booth? I didn't expect you to have discovered this phone so soon._

_yes yes yes i heard it when ur txt came. when did u put it there? where r u?_

_It was Dad's idea. He knew you'd feel better if we had some means to communicate. He said it's as safe as these burned phones can be._

He smiled unwillingly. _burners baby. theyr called burners. where r u? tell me n ill b there_

_You can't, Booth. If you aren't there, the FBI will stop looking for the truth about Pelant. You have to find the truth so we can come home._

_bones baby come home _He stared at the phone, willing her to obey his order. _this is killing me_

_I know and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I couldn't tell you because you would have talked me out of leaving. I'm so sorry._

_We can't let Pelant get away with this, Booth. You will find out the truth and when you do, Christine and I will come home._

His breath caught. _she ok?_

_She's fine. She misses you. I miss you. _

_I have a message for you from Dad. No matter how careful we are, these phones aren't safe and we can't use them very often. Go to the bank, to our safety deposit box. There's a $20 bill in there. Dad marked it and left it there._

He stared at the screen in shock. How in the hell had Max . . . never mind. Booth shook his head and left the question unasked. He'd worry about that later.

_Every Saturday morning go to the farmer's market, to the organic farmer we like. Buy something, anything, from him but pay him with that $20. He'll give it back to you and in the bag will be another phone. _

_Destroy this phone, all of it. Destroy every phone. I'll send messages to the new one each week to let you know we're safe. You can reply but destroy every phone. We will also be using a new one every week. _

_Dad thinks replacing the phones so frequently will prevent anyone from being able to track us with them, or at least make it harder. I can't tell you where we are but you'll know we're safe._

Booth read through the instructions again, stuck somewhere between being appalled at Max's thoroughness and grateful his family was with the one person who cared as much about their safety as he did.

_baby just come home. well find some other way_

_Find the truth, Booth. You will, I know it. _

_i love u  
_

_I love you, Booth. I'm so sorry. _

_Remember, every Saturday there will be a new phone. If you can't get to the market every week, he'll have another phone the next week. _

_i love u bones_

_I love you, Booth. Dad says I have to stop, that we have to destroy this phone._

_i love u_

_I love you, too. _

_bones tell max thanks._

_I will. I love you, Booth. Find the truth so we can come home._

_i love u_

_bones?_

_bones?_

_baby?_

Dammit! He cursed and threw the phone to the ground. He stared at it for a few minutes then picked it back up and read through the short conversation again.

And again.

And again.

When every word was branded into his memory, he removed the memory card from the back and, with effort, snapped it in half. The rest of the phone he beat to fragments with the old fashioned jack he kept in the trunk, taking a perverse pleasure in releasing his frustrations on the plastic and circuitry. When he was satisfied not even Angela's magic computer could put the thing back together, he gathered up the shattered pieces and tossed them to the four directions.

Finally, he slid into his seat behind the wheel again. He sat there in silence for a long while and stared unseeingly down the road while the words they'd just exchanged repeated in his head like the music wheel of a player piano.

_I love you, Booth._

_I love you, Booth._

_I love you, Booth._

With a growl that matched the roaring of the engine, he whipped the car around and raced toward home.

.

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* * *

_Thanks for reading!  
MJ_


	2. Week One

They weren't even subtle when they tailed him. Not that he expected them to be - he knew the drill, he knew that no matter how many times he told them he didn't know where she was . . . where _they_ were . . . no one believed him. He'd made it to the bank unobserved only because that first day, the FBI hadn't yet figured out she was . . . _they_ were . . . gone.

But that was Tuesday and today was Saturday and in the interim he'd been followed and watched and his home had been staked out - hell, they'd hauled him into his own goddamn conference room in his own goddamn office and "interviewed" him. Sitting at another traffic light, waiting for red to change to green, he smiled grimly as he remembered Agent Flynn's attempt to pull information from him.

"_You're telling me you have no idea where they are?" he asked sarcastically._

"_If I knew where they were, I'd be with them," Booth answered quietly, holding Flynn's icy blue gaze steadily._

"_Right," he nodded in disbelief. "So you want me to believe your . . . well," he smirked, "what should I call her? I mean, everyone knows she won't marry you so I can't call her your wi-"_

_So fast he was just a blur of movement Booth stood, his chair falling to the floor with a noisy clatter when he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Flynn's collar and tie. He pulled the agent across the table until he was half-lying on the surface, his feet kicking helplessly. They were nose to nose as Flynn batted ineffectually against that deadly hold as he struggled to breathe around the ever tightening noose created by Booth's grip. _

"_You can call her Dr. Temperance Brennan," he whispered harshly, his low voice a lethal hiss that matched the dangerous expression in his eyes. He held Flynn's gaze until he saw a flash of real fear behind the posturing. Disgusted, he shoved the other agent across the table contemptuously then jerked his chair back in place and sat down again. His anger barely leashed, he watched Flynn cough and wheeze as he tried to drag in fresh air even as he quickly fled the room. _

_He waited expectantly for the agents he was sure would come pouring in to cuff him for attacking Flynn. Instead, after just a few minutes, it was Charlie who appeared in the doorway, observing him with that quiet, even way he handled everything._

"_You're free to go," he said simply, as he held the door open. "Seeley," his quiet voice barely reached Booth as he passed by, "wherever Dr. Brennan is, I'm sure she's fine. She's tough."_

_Booth hesitated for half a step as the support in the softly spoken words and the sympathy and understanding in his co-worker's eyes registered. After the smallest of nods, he walked out._

He hadn't been back to the Hoover since, but he lived surrounded by the FBI.

And now he was in his car, ostensibly headed out to do some grocery shopping. The $20 he'd retrieved from their safety deposit box was in his wallet, the only bill of that denomination in his possession so there could be no possibility of confusing it with another. He glanced at the center console where the well-worn folded rectangle lay and for a minute felt like Superman, sure that he could see the money through the dark leather. Jaw clenched, he stared at the road ahead.

What he was about to do was illegal. That first conversation, the one that played over and over in his head every single moment he was awake and again in his sleep - when he managed to sleep - that first exchange, it wasn't technically illegal. The arrest warrant hadn't been issued, she hadn't been a fugitive when he knelt on the hot pavement beside his car holding on to that phone like a drowning man clinging to a fraying lifeline. Technically, she'd still been free to go where she wanted.

What he was doing today, however, was different. Okay, so she was too smart to tell him where she was but he was still, with full knowledge of the illegality of his actions, about to contact a fugitive wanted for questioning in a murder investigation. Not only that, in defiance of instructions from his superiors and from the agents working that investigation, he was going to remain silent and attempt to hide that communication from law enforcement. He snorted. Attempt? Hell, he was going to do his damnedest to make sure no one found out because . . .

. . . Because this was all he had. Because he knew why she'd left and he knew she trusted that he would, given time, make it possible for her to come home but . . . _she was gone. They__ were gone_. And this was all he had.

A memory surfaced. _"If you don't like the rule, you ignore it, right?" he challenged her. "I can't have that. If you want to do this, work on cases with me, outside the lab, I need to know that you will respect the law."_

God, he'd been so smug. He closed his eyes briefly at the thought. She'd stood there in front of him, hurting for those boys - they were brothers, he remembered - and he hadn't even known why she was hurting, hadn't noticed anything but her usual stubbornness, and then he'd flung _The Law_ at her as if he were Zeus hurling a lightening bolt.

But she'd knocked his knees right out from under him. "_If I can't respect the law, I can at least respect you."_

And she had, he thought. She held up her end of that bargain even when . . . _even when he arrested her own goddamned father_. His hands clenched on the steering wheel so hard he expected to see his knuckles pop through. And even then, when he tried to explain why he'd had to arrest Max, she hugged him - hugged him and told him she understood. She understood that he was Mr. Law and Order, that he was all It's My Job . . .

His skin went clammy, nausea threatening to overwhelm him when he remembered Max Keenan's trial, when she'd turned the evidence so that it implicated her, when he'd had to sit in front of that jury and admit the possibility existed that she might be guilty. _What if,_ that insidious voice slithered through his head again, _what if her ruse hadn't worked? _He swallowed and tasted bile. What if Max had been found guilty and sent to jail? Where would she be now? In jail herself? At the mercy of that monster Pelant? Would she have run without Max's help? Could she hide without his support and his experience? Would she be safe without Max?

"_If I can't respect the law, I can at least respect you."_

And she had, she respected his dedication to his job and his respect for the truth and because she could see what it was doing to him to have _The Law_ turn on him . . . _on them_ . . . how he felt knowing _The Law _was being used against them, she'd taken their daughter and fled. He understood - he did! - but this time . . . this time, goddammit, _The Law_ was wrong. And this time, Mr. Law and Order and It's My Job was breaking _The Law_ himself.

He felt not the slightest bit of guilt for his actions.

He pulled into the parking lot of the farmer's market and circled until he found one spot tucked between a giant SUV and a comically tiny hybrid, with no other available space nearby. He added a friendly wave to his smirk when his tail drove by, searching without success for their own parking place near his vehicle. Without turning around, he knew when they decided to have one person follow him inside and the other stay outside with the car. He felt a surge of satisfaction; one person wasn't nearly as likely to catch something suspicious as two people were.

He'd left the shopping bags at home so the first thing he did was grab a couple more from the first vendor he saw, then he started wandering aimlessly through the maze of stands selling produce and baked goods and homemade jams and jellies. There were a few awkward moments; the news had picked up on Brennan's flight from the police and since the two of them, and now Christine, were familiar figures at this market he wasn't surprised when whispers followed his progress. Aware of Agent Tucker marking every move he made, Booth stopped several times. He tested tomatoes and sniffed cheese, bought a jar of blackberry jam and one of apple butter and lingered for so long staring at a display of small hand-sewn, hand-smocked pinafores that the seamstress came out to give him a hug, and whispered in his ear that she didn't believe a word of what those reporters were saying about that sweet doctor. He was still forcefully blinking away the moisture from his eyes when he approached the organic farmer's display.

He picked over the peaches, then added zucchini and a few fat squash and handed the lot to the burly farmer chewing on a toothpick behind the stand.

"Eleven dollars," the man said gruffly. "You want to use your bag or buy one of mine?"

"Oh, uh, might as well use this one," Booth shrugged and handed over the empty one he carried . . . and the $20. He watched carefully as the produce was transferred to the bag, hoping to see the phone - his lifeline to Brennan - slipped in, too. Suddenly he was jolted from behind and turned to see a small boy, no more than five or six, bouncing off his legs as he ran from his mother.

"Kyle! You come back here!" the woman called out in frustration, and slapped a hand over her mouth when the boy, looking back over his shoulder to gauge how close she was to him, ran straight into Tucker, knocking him back several paces. "Oh no!" she moaned as she made a successful grab for the back of the kid's shirt. "Kyle, you apologize right now! Right now!"

Booth smirked and turned back to the farmer who held up the bag with one hand and passed Booth's change with the other. "I hope you don't mind singles," he said. "Ain't got no fives."

Booth fanned the change as if counting it before he stuck it back in his wallet; with great effort he kept his relief from showing on his face when he saw the $20 tucked in among the ones. "Money's money," he managed to say evenly before he offered a polite thanks and continued on his meandering path through the market.

He forced himself to stop at several more stands, and spent another half hour shopping before he strolled back to his car with two full shopping bags. Knowing he was being watched, he settled his purchases carefully on the floor behind his seat and slid in behind the wheel. He wanted to put the gas pedal on the floorboard and race out of the city as fast as possible, but instead he went through the drive-thru at the cleaners and then, for good measure, the one at the liquor store. If they wanted to report back to the Bureau that he was drinking more than usual, he decided, let 'em. It wouldn't be a lie.

Finally he turned into his driveway . . . _their_ driveway. For a split second he considered pulling directly into the garage but decided instead to remain out in the open. He had nothing to hide, right? He'd been doing nothing but a regular Saturday morning round of errands, right? Right. So he left his car parked in the center of the driveway, got out and before he reached back in for his cleaning and the shopping bags - _the phone_ - offered a sarcastic salute to the agents who pulled to a stop across the street.

But despite his bravado, it wasn't until he was inside with the door securely shut that he took a deep breath and relaxed. He draped his shirts across the back of a chair and, mindful of the windows that surrounded him, carried everything else into the kitchen. After emptying the bag without the produce he began removing peaches and vegetables, one item at a time until, deliberately clumsy, he let a peach drop to the floor. Taking the half-empty bag with him, he knelt down to retrieve the fruit; heart pounding, he quickly shoved his hand inside and pushed everything aside until his fingers brushed against hard plastic. After tucking the phone in his sock he stood up and outwardly calm, put everything else away.

Then he headed upstairs.

After closing the bathroom door firmly, he slid down its surface until he sat on the floor and grabbed for the phone next to his ankle with hands that shook. The minutes stretched until it felt as if hours passed while he waited for it to come to life. He held it in both hands and stared intently as the welcome screen appeared and faded and finally - finally - a tiny envelope icon popped up and announced messages waiting.

_We are safe and well._

_I miss you._

_I love you._

_Christine is a very good traveler and has been remarkably placid during this adventure._

_Please remember to eat well._

_I love you._

He smiled as he scrolled through the messages again then dropped his head back against the door, eyes closed, and held the phone to his chest as he sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

_i love u miss u. house is empty w/o u n christine_

_all else ok_

The phone vibrated in his hand.

_Booth?_

_god yes. baby?_

_Yes. Did you have any difficulty getting the new phone?_

_no, kyle was a big help :) _

_Who is Kyle? You didn't tell anyone about our plan, did you? You can't tell anyone, Booth!_

_ask max. tell him thx 4 me. all ok_

_I've been worried about you. _

_u dont no worry, baby. step into my shoes. u ok?_

_Yes. I'm tired, Christine sleeps while we travel so she's understandably less interested in doing so at night. _

_Also, Dad snores._

_:) listen ur face is all over the news. u need 2 b careful where u stop at nite_

_We are safe. We have other options and are no longer using hotels._

He let those words sink in. Max. Of course Max would have a network of . . . well, of people like himself. Not for the first time, Booth found himself thankful for the old criminal.

_tell max im gonna owe him 1_

_You will owe him one of what?_

_:) just tell him. he will no what i mean_

_I love you, Booth. I miss you._

_god baby, i love u. tell me where u r and im there_

_You are more useful at home. Have you discovered anything new? _

_every1 is workng, always working. they all want u home_

_I want to be home. I love you. I have to go now. _

_i love u bones_

_I love you, Booth. _

Once more he read their conversation again and again, imprinting it in his memory, picturing her face . . . her smile . . . their daughter's face . . . with every word. When he couldn't avoid it any longer, he tucked the phone back into his sock and left the bathroom. Hours later, somewhere in the darkness between midnight and dawn, he quietly retrieved one of his dumbbells from the garage, carried it upstairs and dismantled the phone. When the pieces were small enough, he flushed them down the toilet.

And one more night passed where two people lay awake, hundreds of miles apart, each one thinking of the other.

.

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* * *

_I'm so glad you're reading. What do you think so far?  
MJ  
_


	3. Week Three

Tucked in his sock under a thick band of elastic he'd rigged up - because if this was going to be his routine he needed something more secure than a sock alone - the cold plastic phone burned an imprint into his ankle. He signaled for another drink and tried to ignore it for just a little while longer.

They'd stopped following him every day. He expected that; he knew all about man hours and budgets and he knew they wouldn't be able to keep up that kind of personal surveillance for long. On occasion they would put someone on him again, just in case he'd gotten careless, but he always picked up the tail. Seeley Booth was always a careful man but now? Now his vigilance bordered on Hodgins-level paranoia.

He'd returned to work two weeks ago. Two long weeks spent chained to his desk by a stack of files related to cases gone cold before he even joined the Bureau . . . two long weeks filled with long days full of hastily averted stares and conversations that stopped abruptly when he entered a room. He bore it all stoically, wrapped securely in the knowledge that this time, The Law was wrong and he was - _they were_ - right. Not once did he wonder if he was doing the right thing. Not once did he consider confessing his actions to Flynn. The Law was wrong and he was - _they were - _right.

It helped that he recognized the tricks. When he overheard loud whispers hinting of tips and sightings, he knew those conversations were deliberately held within his hearing and ignored them. When Flynn made sure Booth saw him periodically, he only smiled and silently laughed at the safe distance the other agent always maintained. When he caught Flynn massaging his still tender neck, he almost laughed out loud.

Oh yes, he knew what they were doing. He even allowed himself to appreciate their efforts because the harder they looked in one direction, the more freedom he had to pursue his own investigation. The more bogus leads they chased regarding Brennan, the less they looked at what those still here were doing - namely, Angela and Hodgins. And him. So he played the game - their game - but he played by his rules.

He smiled without humor as he sipped his drink. They were so sure they had him - _them -_ figured out, that it was just a matter of time before they had her back in custody. A woman with a baby and an old man? They'd just been lucky so far, right? Surely it wouldn't be long before someone made a mistake and that mistake would get them caught. Booth shook his head as he stared unseeing at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. They didn't know that old man was their secret weapon.

He set his glass down and stared at his folded hands. Truth be told, he had underestimated Max, too. He thought he knew him. He'd studied Brennan's father, had hunted him at one point and he thought he knew what Max was capable of . . . a grimace crawled across his face at the memory of a disemboweled corpse burnt beyond recognition propped up on the roof of a high rise. What he hadn't known, what he was only now beginning to appreciate, was just how wide stretched the web of Max Keenan.

Earlier that day, not wanting to adhere to a schedule - not sure if they would put a tail on him again - he waited to go to the farmer's market until mid-afternoon, near the end of their business hours when everyone would be packing up for the weekend. He killed time and avoided his empty house - _I can see the bones of the house, Booth!_ - with other errands. He went to a supermarket, stopped at the drugstore and pulled into one of those take-and-bake places for a pizza he knew he wouldn't manage more than a bite or two of and all the while he studied his rear-view mirror and took note of every vehicle, looking for one that cropped up again and again.

He picked up his shadow as he came out of the pizza place balancing a flat white box. He kept his expression blank as he got back in his car and drove to the farmer's market, trying not to let on that he'd made this team, too. _Let them think they're getting one over on me_, he thought. _Let's see how careless _they _get._

He went in through a different door and took a different rambling circuit as he wandered through the stalls. He bought from a few of the same vendors and a couple of different ones, including another organic farmer, and even though the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, he didn't look over his shoulder once. Finally he turned down the only aisle he cared about. _The phone. Christine. Bones. _

A few steps later he heard singing, an old fashioned hymn being performed in acappella harmony. He found himself humming along but otherwise ignored it as just part of the background noise of the market until he reached the only place he wanted to be and found himself in the middle of the group. He picked through the produce and glanced over his shoulder only once, when two men began a hauntingly beautiful duet version of _Amazing Grace_. No longer singing, the women of the small choir detached themselves and began to circulate among the shoppers who stopped to listen to the performance. He had just handed over his selections, a half-full shopping bag and the $20 when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

She was young, dressed in a floral gown that covered her neck and wrists and flowed to her ankles, with smooth freckled skin and sandy hair that hung down her back in a thick braid. She handed him a pamphlet and smiled, her eyes bright and clear.

"Do you have Joy in your heart, sir?"

"_I know who you are," he told her, and wrapped her tightly against his chest as she cried. "I know." _His heartbeat stuttered as the memory surfaced, his jaw clenched as he struggled to breathe evenly. "Always," he managed finally in a voice that fractured as he spoke.

She nodded, her smile gentle and soft, and looked over his shoulder at the farmer. "How about you, sir?" she asked as she handed one of the pamphlets to him. "Do you have joy in your heart?"

"Oh yea, I'm full of it," he grumbled around the toothpick in his mouth. "Now get away from here and stop bothering my customers."

Unfazed, her smile fixed in place, she inclined her head and moved around Booth to the next stall. He heard her greet someone else with the same phrase and then the men's duet ended. When she glanced at one of the singers, he immediately broke into an upbeat version of _I'll Fly Away_, hands raised over his head as he clapped in time with the rhythm. The rest of the group joined in; the women who had been passing out tracts linked arms with some of the audience and encouraged them to clap and sing along as the performance moved down the aisle.

Booth reached for the shopping bag - _the phone -_ and his change and walked away. He didn't have to check the cash to confirm the marked twenty was back in his possession and he knew without looking that his tail had been roped into becoming part of that traveling performance. Just like his almost son-in-law, Max Keenan was a careful man.

.

.

.

After all of that, after another elaborate routine at home designed to hide his real activity from anyone who might be watching, here he sat. Alone, hunched over a bar, hoping one more drink would dull the quiet of the empty house that waited for him. _"You found our house, Booth." _He lifted a finger toward the bartender then lowered it abruptly and reached for his wallet instead. With the phone burning into his ankle like a cattle brand, he headed outside.

He stood in the shadows, away from the light of the doorway, and watched the first cab drive by . . . and then a second. A few minutes later he let a third pass without signaling it. Finally another taxi pulled up and disgorged a group of frat brothers already inebriated from a night of drinking. He slipped through the open door immediately.

The driver hooked an arm across the seat and looked back. "Where to?"

Booth held out a fifty. "Just drive."

The driver snapped it up and shrugged. "Whatever, dude," and pulled into traffic.

He settled back against the seat and let the miles and the minutes pass silently. Every so often he leaned forward and issued instructions to the driver.

"Turn left here."

"Right at the next light."

"Pull in here, turn around and go back the way we came."

And finally, "This is good. Stop here." He got out and waved the driver on when he looked at the meter. "Keep it," he said, and stood there until the tail lights disappeared into the distance.

Then he walked up the steps and sat down at the feet of Abraham Lincoln.

In the darkness of the cab he'd transferred the new phone from his sock to his jacket; now he pulled it out of his pocket and finally, he turned it on.

_We are safe and well._

_I miss you. I miss you very much._

_I've just realized I begin all of these messages by telling you 'we are safe and well.' While true it is also repetitive, isn't it?_

_Christine can straighten her legs now when she's supported in a standing position. The infant development books tell me this is an appropriate milestone for her age but_

_I am certain she can hold that stance much longer than the average length of time indicated for most infants._

_I love you. _

_I know that only three weeks have passed but it feels like a much longer period of time. That is not rational but nonetheless, I find myself feeling frustrated that I can't yet return home._

_My feelings are merely a reflection of my impatience and desire to return and not a comment on the pace of your efforts._

_I love you, Booth. Please be careful and take care of yourself._

_I love you._

_._

_._

_._

_Booth?_

_._

_._

_._

_Dad was notified that you received the phone today but I haven't had any messages from you. _

_I hope you are able to read these texts from me. _

_._

_._

_._

_Please let me know that you are okay._

_I love you._

_._

_._

_._

_I will wait to destroy this phone until tomorrow in hopes of receiving a message from you._

_I love you._

_._

_._

_._

His fingers couldn't move over the keys fast enough.

_im fine. love u. miss u. sorry 2 scare u w/ delay _

_picked up phone late on purpose. they still put a shadow on me sometimes, avoiding it is tricky_

_love u baby. so much._

_im fine, even eating healthy. _

_lots of organic food. :)_

_._

_._

_Booth?_

_._

_._

_yes! ur still up!_

_Yes. I was hoping to hear from you. I couldn't sleep. I was worried. _

_im sorry i left u waiting. dont want 2 b predictble picking up phone or rushing 2 read ur msgs._

_No, I understand. I should have considered that myself._

_max there?_

_He's inside with Christine._

_ask him if the pamplt is importnt. i kept it just n case_

_What pamphlet are you talking about? _

_ask max_

_All right. I'll be right back. _

_You'll still be here?_

_always._

_All right. I'll return as quickly as possible._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_Booth?_

_here_

_Dad said the pamphlet was merely a prop. You may discard it. _

_My father is very clever, isn't he?_

_yea he is_

_i love u_

_I love you. Today was very long. I didn't realize how much I'd come to depend on these conversations._

_me 2. i think the phone burnd a hole n my ankle :)_

_I don't know what that means._

He chuckled out loud.

_i keep it n my sock aftr i pick it up til i can turn it on. seems like the safest place 4 it_

_Are you sure? It doesn't sound very secure. What if it slips out?_

_i sewed n elastic band 4 it, fits around my ankle undr my sock. its not going anywhere_

_That was very ingenuous of you!_

_i have my moments :)_

_what r u doing right now?_

_You mean besides sending you these messages?_

If she had been within reach, he would have kissed her.

_yea_

_I am sitting on an overturned paint bucket on a small balcony I'm not entirely convinced is safe. This location is short on amenities but given our circumstances it seems churlish to complain._

_What are you doing?_

He looked over his shoulder at the massive statue.

_oh me n abe r just hanging out_

_Abe?_

_lincoln_

_Are you at the Lincoln Memorial?_

_yea. seemed like a good idea at the time :)_

_You still haven't repaid me for the cab I sent you home in when we were there. _

_i did!_

_didnt i?_

_No. I didn't want to bring it up._

_but u do now?_

_It seemed like a good idea at the time._

_bones! u made a joke! :) _

_._

_._

_._

_bones?_

_I miss you, Booth. _

_i miss u baby_

_Dad is knocking on the window behind me. It's too soon. I haven't asked if you've made any progress._

_found something. well, might b something. ang found a blip n the looney bin vid. mayb nothing mayb something. hope 2 no more nxt wk_

_That sounds promising. I love you. You will be careful? _

_yea. u b careful. kiss C n tell her its from me_

_I will. I love you. Please try not to worry about me. I am in good hands._

_tell max thx again_

_I will. I love you, Booth._

_i love u_

He held the phone in both hands and stared intently at the small screen for several more minutes and tried to force it by strength of will to produce one more message . . . one more tiny electronic piece of her. Finally he gave up; his head fell forward and he let it hang there for a moment while he took deep breaths and processed the sense of loss that renewed itself each week.

Then he read through the message stream again.

He memorized every _I love you_ and smiled again at her _I don't know what that means._

He counted the minutes that passed in silence after her attempt at joking with him and wondered what that pause meant.

He felt the fear behind the messages she sent throughout the day and second-guessed his decision to wait until now to turn the phone on.

A tiny warning bell pinged at her off-hand _"That sounds promising . . ."_ response when he mentioned the anomaly in the doctored video. He made a mental note to speak to Angela; if she had her own back-channel method of communicating with Brennan, he needed to know about it.

Finally, clutching the phone so hard he could feel the numbers cutting into his palm, he looked up and watched the image of the Washington Monument dance in the waters of the Reflecting Pool. He could hear the words she'd written as if she were speaking to him.

_I love you, Booth._

_._

_._

* * *

_.  
_

_AN: Just so you know, this isn't going to turn into a case-fic. I don't write case fics. I tried once and - well, I'll just say it was bad and leave it at that. There might be occasional references to mysterious work being done but that's about it. I trust you to know that behind the scenes, Angela and Hodgins and Booth (but not Cam because I don't like her and she'd just turn them in anyway) are frantically doing everything possible to Solve The Mystery. Lucky for me, as _Bones-_fans, we're used to imagining things we don't see on-screen, right? _

_So anyway, this is going to focus on B&B and not the Search for Justice. Just Booth and Brennan and this one tiny way they've found to hang on to each other. _

_(btw, if you'd like to read a FANTASTIC post-finale case fic, may I suggest _Paper Locks, _by AmandaFriend. I am wow'd by every single chapter.) (And I don't know the author so I'm not just fluffing.)_

_Thanks for reading!  
MJ_


	4. Week Five

He missed the farmer's market.

It was his own fault.

He was a still a cop. What he was doing . . . _what they were doing_ . . . with the phones, that was not about legal or illegal. That was about him. _Her. Them. _He was still a good cop, goddammit, and when something in one of those cold files tripped his radar he listened to that ping, worked the file, made some calls and ended up driving into Delaware on Friday morning. What should have been a simple task turned into an overnight stay as he tracked some piece of scum from flophouse to crack house to homeless shelter. Not by himself, of course. He hadn't heard the conversation but he was sure Flynn had hotfooted it into Hacker's office immediately, worried the trip was just a sneaky way for him to meet up with Brennan or a plan to disappear, too. They stuck him with some over-enthusiastic rookie who watched every move he made and peppered him with questions about his most notorious cases - all of which involved Brennan, of course, so he basically spent two days talking about her. Hearing her voice. Seeing her face. Every memory another wound through which his pain bled out.

When they finally returned to DC, it was too late. It was hours past closing time and even though it killed him, even though it took an effort of physical strength not to turn the wheel in that direction, he didn't even drive by.

He was too late.

There would be no phone this week.

No _we are safe and well. _No repeat of last week's _We are well and safe. Did you notice I changed the order of my usual opening statement?_ No description of Christine's wispy, cocoa-colored hair growing a bit longer.

No _I love you, Booth _to get him through the next week.

He was too late.

A voice in his head told him to be grateful. He should miss a week occasionally, it whispered, just to disrupt the pattern and throw off anyone who might be paying attention.

He turned an inward, snarling face to that voice and it faded into silence with a whimper.

He wanted a drink. He wanted several drinks.

No, what he really wanted was a game. Pool. Craps. Backroom poker. For the first time in years he wanted to lose himself in the turn of a card or the spin of a cue ball. He wanted to drown everything in the adrenaline of risk.

Instead he found himself sitting on a battered metal folding chair in the back of a room lit by an ugly yellow florescent light that flickered an angry demand for a fresh bulb. He hadn't been here in - he counted back - four years. Not since he'd asked her for a chance and she'd said no and he'd fled to this room determined not to let that pain push him back into the fickle arms of luck. Looking around now he saw some new folks but most of the faces nodding at him were ones he recognized.

The meeting began and he sat in silence, arms folded across his chest, listening but not participating. Gradually, though, there was a shift in the room and almost before he knew what was happening the empty chairs around him were filled and he was surrounded by those familiar faces. No one spoke, they all just sat there staring straight ahead. But he knew they were there . . . next to him . . . behind him . . . in front of him . . . letting him know he wasn't alone. When the meeting was over and they all filed out, they passed him with a pat on the shoulder or a touch on the arm. And still, no one spoke.

It was as if they knew the fragile hold he had on his composure would shatter with one kind word.

When he left he went straight home, the tenuous control he maintained over his addiction back in place as firmly as it ever could be.

But he did have a drink.

Then another one.

And poured himself a third before he accepted that not even reaching the bottom of the bottle would help that night.

_No phone. _

_No messages._

_He was too late._

He went out to the garage, to the sparring bag that hung there, the bag Brennan used for her kickboxing workouts.

He didn't bother changing clothes.

He didn't tape his hands.

Tie askew, sleeves rolled up . . . he simply lashed out. One fist connected with a solid _thunk! _against the heavy red vinyl. Then the other.

Again.

Again.

_No phone._

Thunk!

_No messages._

Thunk!

_He was too late._

Thunk!

Again.

Again.

Again.

When he was finally spent he was drenched in sweat, his shirt plastered to his chest and shoulders, salty rivulets of perspiration dripping from his hair, down his face, into his eyes. He stared at the bag and noticed for the first time the dark smears marring the surface. He looked down at his hands, at the bruised knuckles, the broken skin and the blood staining his fingers and felt nothing.

He felt it later, though. Standing in the shower he braced himself with his hands against the wall and let the cold water beat down on him and cool his overheated flesh. The water turned pink as it washed over his hands and he felt the sting then, and welcomed the pain caused by the soap cleaning the cuts and abrasions. It gave him something else to concentrate on, somewhere else to focus when he stretched out on the couch and tried not to think at all.

Not that it worked. At some point in the dark hours before morning his body dropped into something resembling sleep but his brain never shut off. She always came back to him in the night, whispering in his ear, memories playing in his head like old home movies, the images jumpy and fractured. When he blinked into consciousness again the last thought from the night before was the first thought of the morning, fueling anew the anger and frustration from yesterday.

_No phone._

_No messages._

_He was too late._

From the floor beside him his phone chirped an electronic greeting. He reached for it with that same instant of hope mixed with fear that always accompanied an unexpected phone call these days. Glancing at the display, he stomped down the disappointment that threatened to swamp him and forced himself to smile.

"Hey buddy!"

"Happy Father's Day, Dad!" Parker trilled. "Did I wake you up? Mom said it might be too early but I told her you were always up by now!"

"No, don't worry about it," Booth answered as he settled back against the arm of the sofa. "I had to get up and answer the phone anyway."

"Oh, good," Parker said. "I didn't want to- Hey!" Booth didn't have to force the smile that stretched across his face as his son's merriment drifted through the phone. "That was pretty good!"

"Well, I try," he laughed back. "What have you been up to lately?" He gripped the phone a bit tighter as Parker excitedly described the past week, remembering how upset he'd been when Rebecca first mentioned the opportunity to work out of her firm's London office for a year. Now he was just glad at least one of his children was beyond the reach of Christopher Pelant.

"Dad?" Parker's voice became hesitant. "Are Temperance and Christine still gone?"

He had to struggle to speak past the constriction in his throat. "Yea, Parker. They're still gone."

"Oh."

Booth took a deep breath and stretched for the limits of his control. "Listen, sport . . ."

"I don't think you should worry, Dad," Parker continued in a rush. "Temperance, she's the smartest person in the world! She knows everything!" His earnest face swam in front of Booth's suddenly burning eyes. "She can take care of herself. And Christine! I know it. So," his words slowed. "So, anyway, I don't think you should worry."

Once again, it took him a moment before the words he wanted to say actually made it into a recognizable form of speech. "You're right, Parker," he managed finally. "She's the smartest person I know, too." He cleared his throat. "I love you, son."

"I love you, too, Dad. Oh, mom wants to talk to you. Happy Father's Day!" he said again.

From across an ocean, he heard the rustle of the phone being transferred. "Seeley?"

"Hey, Rebecca. Thanks for letting him call."

"Of course," she responded, then paused briefly. "Any word on Temperance?"

"No." An entire story wrapped up in one simple word.

"I'm so sorry, Seeley." He heard her release a pent-up sigh. "How are you?"

"I'm . . . holding up," he answered.

"Are you?"

He closed his eyes wearily. "As best I can."

"If you need to get away," she offered, "you're welcome here. You know that, right? If you need a few days or a week or two to . . . I don't know, recharge or something. You don't even have to ask, just come."

He nodded even though she couldn't see it. "Thanks, Rebecca, I appreciate that. But I have to stay here. I have to be here in case . . ."

"I understand," she said. "But the offer is always there. Or when Temperance is back," she continued and he felt a rush of old affection at her deliberate use of _when _instead of _if_. "You all should come. Leave everything there behind and just come. Bring the baby. Parker would love to see his little sister."

He couldn't do this. He couldn't. "Thanks, Rebecca. I'll keep it in mind. I . . . I have to . . ."

"I understand," she said again. "Take care of yourself, Seeley, and - Happy Father's Day."

He slumped into the sofa, letting his head fall back and the phone slip out of his fingers. Eyes closed, he sat in silence until a loud rumble from his stomach reminded him how long it had been since he'd eaten anything. Reluctantly he got to his feet; following a quick trip to the bathroom he shuffled to the kitchen and stared with disinterest at the contents of the refrigerator. Despite the growling in his midsection, he wasn't interested in food and nothing looked appetizing. With a grimace he withdrew the carton of eggs and after considering further, took out milk and a few other things.

It wasn't a task that required his complete concentration so inevitably, his mind began to wander.

_"You just have a seat right there," he told her, pointing with the fork in his hand to one of the stools at the bar. "Trust me, one bite and you will be telling me this is the best omelet you ever had."_

_She shrugged and sat down as instructed to watch him work. "If you're going to prepare food don't you think you should be wearing pants?" she asked._

_He shook his head. "Nah, I'm fine." He slid a square of butter into the skillet and turned on the heat. _

_"I think you should. It's not very sanitary to cook while nude."_

_"I'm fine, Bones." The egg mixture sizzled when he poured it into the hot pan._

_"Your kitchen is very small," she pointed out, "which puts your penis in close proximity to a hot surface. You are risking a very painful injury."_

_"Bones!" Exasperated, he turned around, spatula in hand. "My pe- I'm fine, okay. I'm fine." He turned back to the stove. "You just sit there and prepare to be amazed."_

_A few seconds later the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter clicked. He looked around in shock. "Did you just take a picture of me?"_

_"Yes," Brennan nodded as she slid back onto the stool. She held out the phone so he could see the photo. "Look how close your penis is to the stove."_

_"Bones! I'm naked!" he hissed, grabbing for the phone. "You can't take a picture of me naked!"_

_She jerked her arm back, out of his reach. "I'm just proving a point, Booth. You are unnecessarily risking an injury."_

_He flipped the stove off and headed around the counter toward her. "Give me the phone."_

_"No," she argued, tucking her hand in close to her body. "Not until you admit-"_

_"Give it to me," he demanded, but her eyes were sparkling and she was laughing and irresistible and his body instinctively responded . . .  
_

_Her expression mischievous, she dropped down from the stool and backed away. "I believe your penis would be even closer to the heat in its current state," she teased as she danced away from his grasping hands._

_"You- Give me that phone!" Still laughing, she fled down the hallway as he pursued her. They wrestled for control of the phone and then tangled together for an entirely different reason and the omelet was cold when he finally got around to feeding it to her . . . _

The strident beep of the smoke detector jarred him loose from the hold of his memories. Startled, he waved away the heavy cloud that poured off the overheated skillet and ruined eggs and dropped the pan into the sink with a clatter. He opened the door leading to the patio to let the smoke and smell escape and as he stood with the morning sunlight warming his face, began to laugh._ Cold eggs. Charred eggs. Maybe I should start buying bagels._

When his phone rang again he went back inside; sticking it between his shoulder and ear, he dealt with the mess of scorched pan and eggs while he talked.

"Booth."

"Back at ya."

"Hey, Jared."

"What're you doing?"

He laughed deprecatingly as he scrubbed at the pan. "Burning eggs."

There was a pause. "Really. I thought you liked them over-easy."

"I didn't burn them on purpose, trust me."

"Ah." A moment of silence passed. "Well, I wanted to call and wish you a happy Father's Day."

Booth nodded as he scrubbed. "Thanks, I appreciate that." He cleared his throat almost soundlessly. "Parker called this morning, too."

"Oh yea?" Booth heard his brother murmur something he couldn't make out and then the sound of a chair scraping across a wooden floor. "How's he liking it over there? Has he found any hockey yet?"

Booth laughed and tilted the now clean skillet against the sink to dry. "He's found it but I'm not sure he's all that happy with it." He leaned against the island and looked out the window as he shared the earlier conversation. The minutes passed companionably; there was an ease now to the relationship between the brothers that had been missing before, an equalization of status instead of the big brother vs. little brother discord that had existed for so long. Most of the credit for that, Booth realized, went to Padme and the effect she'd had on the wayward Jared.

"You know," he smiled, "if you'd go ahead and procreate, I could call you up on Father's Day for a change."

Jared laughed. "Procreate? Living with Temperance has obviously rubbed off on . . ." his smothered curse still came through the phone clearly. "Seels, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

He gritted his teeth against the dagger that stabbed through his gut at the sound of her name. "It's okay. It's fine."

He knew what his brother's next words would be.

"Anything going on? Any news? Have you heard anything at all?"

Why did everyone ask him that question? If he had news, he'd shout it to the heavens - hire a marching band - a skywriter - something. If he had news he could share, everyone would fucking know about it.

Why did they all keep asking him that?

"No."

He heard the breath Jared released. "You know, I've got some time coming to me," he said. "I could take a few days, maybe a week - come down there," he offered. "If there's anything I can do . . ."

Booth was already shaking his head. "No. No, that's okay. I appreciate that, Jared," he said sincerely, "but there's nothing you can do and . . ." he laughed bitterly. "I'm not really good company right now."

"All right." Jared accepted his words at face value. "But if you change your mind, Seeley, if you need me, I'm counting on you to let me know. 'Cause," he paused awkwardly, "because I love you, bro."

Booth's smile was genuine, if bittersweet. "I love you, too, Jared. Thanks."

The phone call ended a few minutes later. By that time not even the lingering smell of burned eggs could distract his stomach from its emptiness. Playing it safe, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and ate in silence.

He was washing the solitary breakfast dishes when his phone sang out again. Hands splayed on the sink, his head dropped along with his shoulders. _Happy Father's Day_, he thought. _Yes, I'm fine. No, I haven't heard anything. Yes, I'll call you if I need anything. _The phone continued to beep as he held his silent conversation. He had a vague idea of letting the call go to voice mail before he glanced at the display. Shaking off his irritation, he grabbed for it.

"Morning, Pops."

"Happy Father's Day, kid," his grandfather offered in his usual gravel-edged voice.

"Thanks." He walked into the living room and slumped back in his chair. "Happy Father's Day to you, too. I was going to call later . . ."

"Yea, yea, I know," Hank interrupted. "It's early. That boy of yours called and woke me up."

Booth laughed. "Yea, he got me, too. I don't think he quite understands the time difference."

"Well, it turned out okay," Hank noisily settled into his own chair. "I made it downstairs before all the bacon was gone. They only let us have that a few times a year and if you're not quick these bastards eat it all." He changed subjects abruptly. "You got anything going on today?"

Booth's mind didn't switch gears that rapidly. "Uh . . . well . . ."

"Good," Hank continued as if Booth's stammering response hadn't happened. "You have time to come see an old man. And bring me something decent to eat, will ya?"

His fingers pressed into the bridge of his nose. "Well, I was going to-"

"What?" Hank barked. "Sit around and mope? Drink? Neither will do you as much good as coming to see me. Besides," he added sneakily. "Who knows how many of these things I've got left."

Booth laughed unwillingly. "You'll probably outlive all of us."

"I don't think so," Hank disagreed. "And I hope not. My whole body is falling to pieces now, God help me trying to keep it together long enough to be the last to go."

Booth gave in with good grace, knowing a losing battle when he saw one. "Sure, Pops. That sounds good. I still need to get dressed but I'll be there in a few hours."

.

.

"You look like crap." Hank's blunt greeting had Booth rubbing a weary hand across his stubbled jaw. He knew his sleepless nights and restless days showed. The still sharp old eyes narrowed at the broken skin and bruises on his hands. "How does the other guy look?"

"It was just me and a sparring bag," he said lightly. "The bag might have won." At least his grandfather wasn't smothering him with sympathy, he thought, and that was something he appreciated. After fending off a phone call from Sweets, followed by one from Cam and then Angela and even, God help him, Hacker in what he was sure was supposed to be a well-meant gesture of support, he was drowning in a riptide of understanding encouragement.

He tried to smile as he pulled his grandfather into a hug, suddenly fiercely glad he'd given into his elder's request-slash-demand. Despite the bulk of the old man, he could feel the fragility in the bones beneath his hands and was careful not to squeeze too hard. It struck him forcefully that Hank was probably right - he didn't have many years left to celebrate Father's Day.

"What're you doing, drinking your dinner?" Hank asked pointedly. He shook his head when Booth just shrugged. "Ah, Seeley. You know you can't get answers out of a bottle." When Booth didn't meet his eyes, he sighed heavily and jerked his head toward the hallway. "Well, let's get the fuss over with before that food gets cold. I can lecture you some more while I eat. What'd you bring me?"

He led Booth into the large rec room where, indeed, a fuss was waiting. The women surrounded him and tittered over the shadows beneath his eyes and the weariness in his expression. Delicate hands patted his shoulders as they offered him advice ranging from warm milk to a shot of hot brandy in the milk to what kind of socks to wear - because warm feet automatically led to deeper sleep. The men weren't much better; they wanted to talk about where Brennan might be and what they hoped Booth would do to the man who'd forced her to run. Hank let it go on for a few minutes before he whistled sharply into the noise.

"Okay, the more you people talk the colder my food gets. Let him go so I can take him up to my room. I don't want you bozos slobbering over me while I eat. Come on, shrimp."

Booth gratefully followed his grandfather's shuffling footsteps to the elevator. "Thanks, Pops."

Hank waved the thanks away. "Had to let 'em have you for a bit. We don't get anything exciting happening in here very often. Mmm, this smells good!" He took the bag from Booth as the elevator doors opened. "You say that English fella made it?"

"Yea," Booth smiled. "I called him up this morning and he made it just for you."

_"You look rather the worse for wear, Agent Booth," Gordon Gordon had commented, his usual hangdog expression filled with gentle compassion. "Come back tomorrow and I shall prepare for you a sumptuous feast whilst you unburden yourself of your tale of woe." _Booth smiled to himself at the memory. That was one offer he planned to accept.

"Well, I never thought much of English food while I was there," Hank muttered, pushing the button for his floor, "but I've got to admit, that one knows what he's doing." The elevator doors closed securely. Hank looked at his grandson. "I've got something for you, too."

"Aw, Pops," Booth groaned. "You know how I feel about you spending your money on me." He stood aside as the elevator almost immediately reached Hank's floor just one level up. "You just take care of yourself, I don't need anything."

Hank turned back sharply and pinned Booth down with a familiar glare. "And I've told you it's my money and I'll spend it any way I please." He grumbled as he pulled out the key to his small room. "Don't think I'm so old I can't still show you what's what, kid." He unlocked the door and entered first. Booth followed him inside, biting back a smiling response to his grandfather's veiled threat. Hank slid the bag onto the small table that took up one corner of the room and indicated with a nod that Booth should sit. "As it happens, though," he continued, taking a bottle of water from his small refrigerator before turning to the dresser next to his bed, "I didn't have to spend any money." He removed a flat manila envelope from the top drawer and handed it to Booth as he took his own seat, pulling the now lukewarm covered tray out of the bag. "Found that right here on this table when I woke up this morning."

Booth flipped the envelope over; his heart began to race when he recognized the familiar slant of the handwriting that formed one word: _Booth._

Hank took one bite and closed his eyes with relish as he chewed. "Funny thing, that being here," he said casually as he continued to eat, his eyes now on his grandson. "Doors are locked downstairs at 10:00 every night. There's a guard watching 'em. Even an alarm so no one can sneak out while he's in the head." He swilled water around his mouth before swallowing it. "My door's always locked, too, except," he leaned closer and grinned wickedly, "when I'm expecting company, you understand."

Booth didn't respond. He was staring at the envelope, holding his breath as if it might disappear if he exhaled.

"Yea, funny thing." Hank sat back, folded his hands over his ample stomach and watched Booth. "All those locked doors and yet, there it was, plain as day on my table this morning." He shook his head. "No one's called me _Booth _since I left the Army, especially not anyone with that kind of pretty handwriting. I put 2 and 2 together and got 3.99. I figured that was good enough, so I called you." His eyes narrowed on his grandson's frozen state. "I don't think it's going to bite you, son," he said gently. "You plan on opening it?"

His hands shaking visibly, Booth slid a fingernail beneath the glue that held the envelope closed. Heart pounding, his breathing shallow and fast, he slipped his fingers inside.

It was a photo.

A black and white photo of Brennan and Christine.

He could have sworn his heart stopped beating.

The camera had gone in close; behind them were nondescript trees and a grassy field but it was their faces that filled the page. Brennan's dark head tilted toward Christine's, her gaze locked on the lens so that she seemed to be looking right at him. The small upward curve of her lips belied the faint shimmer of moisture he could see in her eyes. By some miracle the photographer - _Max, he wondered? _- had captured the baby also looking straight into the camera, the fingers of one hand in her mouth, the other reaching out, her tiny palm open and upright. His memory substituted color for the varied shades of grey, filling in the liquid blue of the eyes of the woman he loved and their daughter.

Booth released a breath of air that carried tears within it. "Pops . . ." He tried to speak but couldn't.

With a white pen, she'd written in the shadows of the lower right corner of the photo.

_To hear your voice is pomegranate wine to me_  
_I draw life from hearing it_  
_Could I see you with every glance_  
_It would be better for me_  
_Than to eat or to drink_

And because she was Temperance Brennan, she'd footnoted the words.

_*The Flower Song_  
_1539 BC, Egypt_  
_Author Unknown_

Hank heaved himself to his feet and came around to peer over Booth's shoulder. He patted the younger man's back and felt the tremors beneath the heavy muscles. "She looks like crap, too," he murmured, commenting on the same changes he'd already noticed in his grandson. "Of course, she's still prettier than you." He read out loud the words she'd written. "1539 BC? Where does she get this stuff?" he asked rhetorically as he went back to his chair.

"She's the smartest person in the world." Booth repeated Parker's words in a barely audible whisper as his own existence narrowed to the space between him and that photo.

He dredged up a smile, his thumb tracing the shadows visible beneath her eyes. She'd lost weight, he realized, noting the hollows that threw her cheekbones into more dramatic relief and the newly sharpened jut of her strong jawline.

"Max did that," he managed, trying to hold onto his smile, stroking with his index finger the tiny curl atop Christine's head held up by the smallest bow he'd ever seen. "Bones wouldn't . . . " He couldn't finish the sentence. He placed two trembling fingers against the baby's upright palm and closed his eyes, struggling for composure.

"Pops," he said finally, unable still to tear his eyes away from the photo, his voice harsh with the weight of words he couldn't say. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry you got involved in . . ."

"What are you talking about?" Hank asked, his face a mask of almost comically obvious confusion. "I can't have a picture of my great-granddaughter and her mother? Temperance is my granddaughter, too, you know, even if you're both being stubborn about getting married," he harrumphed. "I didn't see a date on that picture."

The two men sat in silence for several minutes, Booth unable to stop staring at the photo as he tried to memorize every detail. Hank watched Booth. When he spoke again, his voice was low and serious.

"I was a good cop," he began. Booth tore his eyes away then, looking up in surprise. "I enjoyed being a cop and I was good at it. I was better," he added, "when I figured out that sometimes, there are different shades of right and wrong. If I'm not mistaken," his perceptive eyes took in Booth's reaction, "that's what you're learning now, too." He held up a hand to ward off whatever Booth might have said. "I'll tell you what I told your colleagues when they came to see me. Oh, yea," he nodded. "I got a visit. I don't know where Temperance is," he continued, "and if I did know, I wouldn't tell them. If they had any kind of cop sense about 'em, they'd know that if that girl killed someone, she sure as hell wouldn't leave a trail that led right back to her. Damn fools," he huffed.

Hank leaned forward and put a hand on Booth's knee. "I don't know where that picture came from and I gotta tell you, I'm not all that thrilled that it just showed up the way it did. But she went to an awful lot of trouble to make sure you got it so I'd bet my last ten years there's nothing on there that says anything about where they are. You take that home with you, son." He looked into his grandson's anguished eyes. "You take that home with you and you put it somewhere you can see it every day and you remind yourself that wherever she is, she's fighting as hard to get back to you as you are to bring her home."

Booth nodded and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall on his precious photo. "Thanks, Pops."

Hank nodded. "You'll get your family back, Seeley," he promised. "Trust me."

.

.

* * *

_Thanks very much for reading, especially to those of you who have been following this since it was part of _160 Characters or Less_ and then had to follow the trail of breadcrumbs left behind when I moved those first chapters to this shiny new story. I know the move was sudden and a bit confusing so again, thanks for sticking with me._

_Also, the fabutastic Penandra looked this over for me and I can't say enough how much I appreciate it. I'm stealing from her the enjoyment of opening a new chapter by forcing her to slog through a rough draft first and she's been nothing but gracious about my thievery. Thanks and much love, Penny!  
_

_Last but not least, I am normally pretty good when it comes to replying to reviews but I failed miserably after _Week Three, _for which I apologize profusely. I read every review, I love every review and every review adds a little sparkle to my day - and we all need more sparkle, right? So if you left a review and didn't get a note back, this is me apologizing and saying Thank You, Thank You, Thank You. And if you're reading and not reviewing . . . well, I love you anyway. Of course, I'd love you _more_ if you left a review_ . . .


	5. Week Six

_The faint sound of a baby whimpering drifted through the monitor and woke him immediately. He listened for just a bit longer; she sometimes managed to put herself back to sleep but it was obvious by the growing volume of her cries that this would not be one of those nights._

_Brennan was curled into his back, the position she inevitably gravitated to while she slept. He held the hand she'd slung over his waist securely in his, their fingers threaded together against his chest. Slowly he disengaged, moving carefully in an attempt to avoid waking her._

_But she'd heard the monitor, too. "I'll go," she murmured sleepily._

_He smiled, leaned over and pressed a kiss into the dark hair that fanned across her temple. "I'm already up," he whispered. "I got it."_

_"She's probably hungry," came the response as she rolled to her back, eyes still closed. The moonlight shining through their bedroom curtains tossed random patterns over her face._

_"I got this. Go back to sleep." He pulled the sheet up to her shoulders, touched his lips to hers and padded quietly out of the room._

_The sounds grew louder when he pushed the door to the nursery fully open, his daughter's irritated mewling a strident demand to be noticed. He crossed the room quickly, murmuring soothing nonsense with the hope of warding off any inclination she might have to drop into full screaming-baby mode. It worked, the deep timber of his voice as reassuring and calming to her as the familiar scent of his warm skin when he cuddled her against his broad chest._

_"Phew! You stink, pretty girl," he murmured softly as he carried her to the changing table. "No wonder you're a fussy Chrissy-baby." He made short work of the task, stealing a few minutes before redressing her in a fresh sleeper to tickle her toes and her funny outie belly-button while she kicked and waved and smiled up at him with her mother's eyes._

_When she was changed and fresh and sweet, he tiptoed downstairs. "It's just you and me tonight, kid," he whispered. "Are you hungry?" He kept up a sing-song monologue as he reached inside the refrigerator for the milk Brennan had pumped earlier that evening. "Oooh, see what I found? I knew we could do this by ourselves." He rumbled the words into the curve of her neck and grinned when her little fists tugged at his hair. "You gonna let Daddy take care of his baby girl tonight?" While the milk warmed he played some more, his arms stretched up to lift the baby high above his head. "Look who's flying!" He laughed and brought her down quickly when she squealed happily. "Shhh! We're letting Mommy sleep, remember?"_

_When the milk was ready he carried her back upstairs and sat down in the rocking chair in the pretty yellow bedroom, settling her in the bend of his elbow. One long finger stroked the perfect curve of her cheek while she latched on to the bottle hungrily. Blue eyes held brown, the baby's gaze locked with his while she fed until the tiny eyelashes fluttered closed and lay in a dark smudge against her skin. When the bottle was empty he set it aside, spread a primrose-dotted blanket over his shoulder and held her there, his chin resting against her head as he patted her back gently. Eyes closed he soaked in the moment and committed each tiny detail to memory, all too aware of just how quickly these precious days flew by._

_The air bubble finally came up in a loud burp. He chuckled silently when she frowned and smacked her lips and rubbed her nose into the blanket. With more light kisses on the top of her head, he continued to draw circles on her back until she settled fully into sleep. When her breathing evened out again, he laid her carefully down in the crib, watched for a few seconds then crept away slowly, leaving the door ajar._

_A few minutes later, he flipped off the bathroom light and slid into bed. Brennan rolled into his side automatically. "You didn't wake me."_

_"We managed." He wrapped her closer. "She was dirty and hungry. You're welcome."_

_"Mmm," she nodded. "What was her bowel movement like? Was it . . ."_

_He laid a finger across her lips. "I am not going to describe her crappy diaper," he laughed softly._

_She smiled against his touch and then, her sleepy eyes holding his, parted her lips and took his finger in her mouth. His nostrils flared briefly when she scraped her teeth gently along his skin before she released the digit and drew his head down to hers._

_It was a slow, languorous kiss that created a moment that became a crossroads in the night. It might have ended as sweetly as it began, with a sigh and a smile and a contented murmur as they settled back into the sleep that had been interrupted. In fact, many of those kisses ended in just that fashion, and neither of them noticed how quickly they'd come to take for granted that there would always be more, that night would lead to morning and morning to day and the day would fade into another night together._

_But sometimes the soft brush of her lips against his, or his against hers, became the spark that lit the tinder beneath the need that always burned just below the surface of what they had become. On those nights . . . on this night . . . they chose to fan the flames._

_Not in a rush of heat and desire that burned hot and ended quickly but with lazy, unhurried caresses and murmured words of love and passion and longing. The night deepened around them, highlighted by the silver glow of moonlight that followed a slender hand when it trailed down the heavy ridges of the muscles in his abdomen. The darkness became a partner in their sensual dance, teasing him with what it concealed when he tugged at a satin bow and brushed aside pale silk to press his lips against even softer skin._

_They drew out every minute as if forever waited with the sunrise, and reveled in the simple pleasures of touch. His hair-roughened legs sliding along the smoothness of hers. The gritty sandpaper of his cheeks against the tender flesh of her thighs. Her lush curves yielding to his hard angles. There was no urgency, just the two of them and a night full of shadows and whispered promises and seductive hints of laughter that built until the simmering hunger they nurtured and fed finally demanded to be assuaged._

_Their lovemaking drifted along on a voluptuously slow current, their enjoyment in each other all the more erotic because of its leisurely pace. When he slid into the welcoming heat of her body, her response to his soft "I love you, Bones" was a husky purr of satisfaction as he began to move. They flowed together like water over stones in a river, touching everywhere . . . her hands on his shoulders . . . his at her waist . . . her fingers in his back . . . his brushing damp hair from her neck . . . When she finally shuddered beneath him and clenched around him, her whispered "I love you, Booth" was answered by the rasp of his harsh breath against her neck as he poured himself into her._

_They clung together, holding on to each other as their heartbeats slowed and their bodies cooled, while the night watched and the moon slipped behind shreds of clouds and the daughter they'd created slept in the home they'd made. Finally he lifted his body from hers and took her with him when he rolled to the side. After a nifty bit of gymnastics when he searched for the sheet with one foot, found it and managed to lift a bit of it up within reach of his hand, he settled it over them. She murmured something inaudible and rolled to her back, already mostly asleep. He pressed a kiss into the tangle of hair at her temple and fitted himself closer to her, one arm hooked over her waist. His drowsy eyes noticed the change in the light outside as dawn approached and he smiled as he followed her into sleep. It was going to be a beautiful day._

.

.

.

The still unfamiliar tone of the new alarm clock woke him not long after the sun peeped over the horizon. Eyes closed, he fumbled on the bedside dresser and silenced it. Then he reached for her.

And found empty space.

Immediately alert, his eyes popped open then closed again as disappointment surged through him.

He was alone. As alone as he'd been every morning during the six weeks that had passed since she'd taken their daughter and run.

The untouched half of the bed mocked him with the reminder that what he cherished most was gone and all he had left were memories. Memories that came back to him in dreams so vivid that waking up was like watching her . . . _them_ . . . drive away again, every morning.

He rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling . . . and then he remembered.

Memories weren't all he had.

It was Saturday morning.

His head swiveled to the right and he smiled at the photo of Brennan and Christine he'd placed beside the bed, angled so that it was the first thing he saw every day. Suddenly energized, he sat up and put his feet on the floor. In what had become a daily ritual, he touched two fingers to the image of his daughter's upright palm and stood up.

It was Saturday morning.

The farmer's market opened in thirty minutes.

He planned to be there in 45.

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* * *

_AN: About the 'new alarm clock'? I had this whole explanation where their real alarm clock was actually Booth's old clock, one he'd had for so long it only played one wake up tune. Which Pelant didn't know, of course, so when the replacement he planted wasn't similarly broken, Booth noticed the difference and discovered the switch. I couldn't fit that explanation in this chapter but I also didn't want to leave that 'new alarm clock' just hanging out there. So, voila! The backstory of the alarm clock. (I have backstory! I'm like JK Rowling! Except, you know, not. :-D )  
_

_I wanted to do a lighter chapter because with the date for the premiere announced (Sept. 17!), I'm feeling hopeful and I want Booth to feel hopeful, too, especially after last week's Ocean of Angst. This is as close as I get to writing sexxytimes for B&B - I know it's romance-novely but this is what I write. What can I say? I'm a hopeless fucking romantic, okay?  
_

___Much love and thanks to Amilyn for giving this a last-minute read through and especially for catching a major 'oops.' Seriously, she spared you all from a big WTH? moment. You should tell her thanks.  
_

_And from me, thank you for reading.  
_


	6. Week Seven

It had become a ritual.

She told him they were safe and well.

He told her he missed them.

They both said I love you.

They used the rest of the short time Max allowed each week to create a new normal in a relationship that had never followed the usual path anyway. Picking up the threads of the life they'd worked so hard for - the one that almost didn't happen, the one they'd almost thrown away, the one they'd made from the ashes of tragedy - they took those threads and wound them over and under and through the distance that separated them now. Who they had been became who they were now - two people who loved each other as much as they ever had and who were determined to survive together.

For the time being this was their normal and as they'd always done for each other, they adapted.

_tell __me __a __funny __story_

_You __want __me __to __tell __you __a __joke__?_

_i __dont __no__ - __do __u __have __time__ 2 __explain __it__ 2 __me __after __u __tell __it__?_

_That __was __mean__! _

_I __have __a __very __well__-__developed __sense __of __humor__!_

_Do you have one of those symbols for frowning?_

_try this :/  
_

_:/  
_

_sorry. :-) didnt __mean __a __joke__. __tell __me __something __funny __thats __happened 2__u_

_Oh__. _

_I__'__m __not __sure __I __have __anything __like __that __to __share __with __you__._

_There __haven__'__t __been __many __occasions __for __levity__._

_Dad __has __been __very __professional __about __this__. __I __know __I __should __be __grateful __for __his __expertise__ - __and __I __am__ - __but __it__'__s __also __a __bit __unsettling __how __good __he __is __out __here__._

_Oh__, __I __do __have __something __funny__!_

_k__ :-)_

_One __of __the __locations __we __stayed __in __was __furnished __with __waterbeds__._

_thats __not __funny __bones__, __thats __just __sad_

_Yes__, __they __were __very __unpleasant__. __However__, __that__'__s __not __the __humorous __part __of __the __story__._

_sorry __to __interrupt__ :)_

_Dad __woke __up __one __morning __and __all __of __his __clothing __was __damp__. __He __made __a great __amount __of __noise__, __sure __that __the __bed __was __leaking__._

_However__, __he __had __been __sleeping __with __Christine __and __in __the __night__, __her __diaper __had __slipped __off__. __What __he __thought __was __the __waterbed __leaking __was __just __her __urine__._

_lol__! __poor __max__ :)_

_Yes__. __He __did __not __find __the __situation __as __amusing __as __I __did__. __However__, __he __has __been __much __more __diligent __about __securing __her __diaper __properly __since __then__._

_i __bet__ :)_

_Was __that __the __type __of __story __you __wanted __to __hear__?_

_yea__ :) __why __was __C __w/max__? __thot __she __slept __w__/__u__?_

_._

.

.

.

_bones__?_

_I __don__'__t __sleep __well__. __I__'__m __fine__. __There__'__s __no __cause __for __concern __and __no __reason __for __you __to __worry__. __When __I __do __sleep__, __Dad __will __sometimes __take __Christine __in __with __him __and allow me to sleep longer__._

_But __I__'__m __fine __and __there __is __no __reason __for __you __to __worry__. __An __inability __to __fall __asleep __is __a __natural __reaction __to __a __stressful __environment __or __a __new __situation__. __You __should __not __be __concerned__._

_i __dont __sleep __either__. _

_That__'__s __not __healthy__, __Booth__. __Perhaps __you __should __talk __to __Dr__. __Quinn__? __He __could __prescribe __medication __that __would __help __you __fall __asleep__._

_dont __worry__. __i __heard __its __a __natural __reaction __blah __blah __blah__ :)_

_.  
_

_.  
_

_I __did __not __say__ "__blah __blah __blah__."_

_:) __i __love __u_

_I __miss __you__. __Dad __is __waving __to __me__._

_tell __him __2 __go __away_

_I __already have __once before__. _

_I __love __you__._

_i __love __u__. __u __will __b __careful__?_

_Yes__. __You__, __also__._

_tell __C __i __love __her_

_I __do__, __every__day__._

_i __love __u_

_I __love __you__._

_.  
_

_.  
_

In the bathroom of a house in Maryland and on the porch of a small cabin in Idaho, they memorized words and exclamation marks and graphic smiles. Tucked securely into memory these small moments waited, ready to be brought out again when darkness fell and solitude made breathing painful.

Loneliness, too, had become a ritual.


	7. Week Eight

Someone unfamiliar was behind the produce stand.

Booth's steps hitched imperceptibly as he turned the corner and noticed the switch immediately. His eyes skimmed the setting quickly. The signage was the same. So was the display, with minor changes related to a few different items being offered for sale. Everything appeared normal . . . except that the thin, gangly young man bouncing exuberantly from one customer to the next was definitely not the brawny, taciturn farmer Booth had dealt with for the past eight weeks. Thoughts spinning, he pretended to pick over the fruits and vegetables while he wrestled with indecision and fear.

Was she . . . _were they_. . . okay?

Had they been found? No, he'd know if that had happened.

Wouldn't he?

He'd been so careful . . . God knows Max was always careful . . .

The $20 he carried seemed to burn through his wallet into his hip. Should he use it? What if this new guy didn't have a phone and thought it was just money? That marked bill was his lifeline to Brennan, the tenuous thread from which the tiny bit of sanity he clung to dangled. What if he lost it?

"Who are you?" A cranky voice on his right jerked him out of his spinning thoughts. A tiny elderly woman stood beside him wearing an old fashioned floral house-dress, her silver hair wrapped in a braided coronet on top of her head. "Where's the other guy?" She stared irritably at the young man behind the boxes and crates of homegrown produce.

He stuck a friendly hand out over the cantaloupe. "I'm Matthew. I'm just holding down the fort for my brother. He couldn't be here this week."

The vise around Booth's chest relaxed fractionally. Matthew. That couldn't be a coincidence.

The old woman clutched an open knit shopping bag to her chest and stared at his hand until he withdrew it awkwardly. "How do I know you know what you're doing?" she asked suspiciously. "How do I know you haven't sprayed God knows what on this stuff?" She waved over the rows of freshly harvested produce. "Don't think you can fool me into paying good money for organic vegetables when they're all covered in bug spray!"

Booth listened avidly as he moved from stacks of potatoes to crates of carrots, all while seeming to ignore the loud discussion going on beside him. He glanced over briefly when two women approached on his left, chattering to each other about ballet lessons and soccer practice.

"No, ma'am," Matthew insisted with a smile. "Our family's been in this business for a long time, we all know what we're doing." He gestured out over his stand. "I do everything just like my brother does. I even brought the same stuff with me that he brings with him every week. You don't have to worry. It's as safe as it always is."

Booth closed his eyes and drew in the first full breath he'd been able to take since he turned the corner.

"Harrumph," the old woman sniffed. She snatched a melon from the stack, held it close to her ear and thumped it. "Well, where is your brother? Why isn't he here? I don't like strangers touching my food!"

Matthew paused to deal with a family who bought a basket of peaches. "Oh, his baby girl is sick," he said casually as he passed their change over with a smile.

The tomato Booth had just picked up exploded in a shower of seeds and mush.

"Oh!" Matthew exclaimed. "Looks like you found one that's a little too ripe! Here, I've got some paper towels." He took the mangled remains of the fruit out of Booth's hand and passed over a wad of napkins. "Yea, she's got an ear infection," he added, looking back at the old lady. "Nothing serious, just one of those things kids get."

One of the two women on Booth's left chimed in. "My kids got ear infections all the time when they were little." She pointed behind Matthew. "Are those seedless watermelons?"

Her friend laughed. "I used to think Jared got them on purpose just because he liked the taste of that pink medicine!"

Booth wiped his hands clean of the mess of the smashed tomato and began to relax again as the people at the stand repeatedly emphasized to each other how minor an ailment a simple ear infection was. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that this performance was being held entirely for his benefit.

"Did you get everything you needed, Mom?" A fourth woman appeared at the old lady's elbow.

"Does it look like I'm finished, Linda?" her mother responded cantankerously. "Don't rush me."

"I'm not rushing you," her daughter defended herself. "I just asked- Never mind." She threw up her hands and stopped talking when the old woman glared at her.

"Is your niece prone to ear infections?" one of the women on his left asked Matthew curiously.

"No, she's usually healthy as a horse. This is the first time she's been sick." Matthew laughed and leaned forward conspiratorially. "To be honest, I think my brother stayed home because of her mom - she's a little high-strung where her baby girl is concerned."

Booth ducked his head to hide a smile as he added a few squash to the small basket he was filling. Yes, this conversation was definitely meant for him. He made the decision to risk using the marked $20 and passed over the produce to be weighed and counted.

"We'll just call that $13 even," Matthew announced. His face set and his heart racing, Booth reached for his wallet, keeping a careful eye on Matthew as he handed the money over.

"Well, mothers can be that way about their children," Linda nodded wisely. "It's natural."

"And how would you know?" her mother snapped. "Have you given me any grandchildren? No!" Booth was startled into turning toward her when the old termagant slapped him on the arm. "Look at her!" she demanded. "Thirty-eight years old and not even a boyfriend. She's too picky, I keep telling her. She's pretty enough, don't you think?"

Booth looked at the genuinely mortified woman staring in horror at her aged mother. "Yea," he nodded a bit awkwardly. "She's beautiful."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," the old lady disagreed as she scanned her daughter from head to toe. "But she'll do." Her keen eyes then did the same thing to Booth. "You're a handsome fella. Married? Kids?"

"I have two," he answered, grinning as he tried to follow along with the game he assumed she was playing. "A son and a daughter."

"See?" she barked at her cringing daughter. "His mother has grandbabies!" Turning to Booth again she zeroed in on his left hand. "I don't see a ring. Divorced?"

"No." He shook his head. "My partner and I aren't married, but we have a child-" The faded blue eyes twinkled innocently at his response - too innocently, he thought, immediately wary. What was she . . .

"Well, I don't judge," she chirped, suddenly cheerful, and patted his arm again. "The world needs more love, that's what I always say. Especially children. I think it's wonderful they're letting the homosexuals adopt now."

"Dor - Mother!"

A snort of laughter from one of the women on his left was quickly turned into a coughing fit that didn't fool anyone. In the middle of the produce stand, Matthew sent a crate of Silver Queen corn tumbling to the floor and took what seemed to be an extraordinary amount of time to gather it up. Booth saw and heard everything and just laughed, enjoying himself for the first time in weeks.

"My partner is a woman," he explained to her, even though he was sure this group of people probably knew all there was to know about him, right down to his shoe size. "We're just not married."

She crooked an eyebrow at him. "Why not?" she demanded. "Seems to me if you've got kids you shouldn't be so happy to say you're not married."

He flashed a smile that set the heart rates of the three younger women racing. "She hasn't asked me yet."

The old woman wasn't immune to the power of his charm, either, but recovered fast enough to spin around and slap Linda's arm. "See? I told you men don't do all the work anymore! You have to go get you one!"

Matthew chose that moment to interrupt, holding up Booth's shopping bag with one hand and a thin stack of folded bills in the other. "Here you go, sir. Sorry to hold you up."

"No problem," he replied, not surprised at all to see the $20 when he skimmed through the money before stuffing it in his pocket. "Ladies," he looked at each of them in turn. "It was a pleasure. Thank you," he added, his words sincere. When he walked away, he was still smiling.

And he laughed out loud when behind him he heard Linda hiss, "Dorothy! That was not part of the plan!"

"You know why you don't have a boyfriend, Linda? No sense of humor."

.

.

.

Later that night . . . . . . . . . .**  
**

_hows C feeling? ears ok? _

_Yes, she's much better. How did you know she'd been ill?_

_:D _

_wait til u hear what happend to me 2day_

_.  
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_.  
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* * *

_.  
_

(I think I could have made popsicles out of amoxicillin and my kids would have happily eaten them.)

I'm so glad you're reading. :-) Thanks!_  
_


	8. Week Nine

_AN: For those of you who don't know or haven't realized, this would probably be a good place for me to point out that I have a habit of recycling original characters ("OC") I first created for other stories. I feel like I have my own little corner of Hart Hanson's playground and I'm building a massive castle out of his sand where all of my stories and O/S live together in harmony (kum bah yah). If you see an OC used too familiarly, without any explanation or backstory, chances are he (or she) has his (or her) own story somewhere else._

_(You would like my sandcastle. It has a moat and lots of towers and turrets, witches and wizards, a beautiful princess and a Knight in Shining FBI Issued Body Armour. And a vampire named Spike! :-D)_

_._

* * *

.

.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Brennan caught her father's eyes in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. She was sitting in the back of a dark SUV that reminded her painfully of Booth, Christine asleep in the car seat beside her. The windows were tinted to a shade just this side of legal, minimizing the glare of the sun shining directly overhead and hiding her from the few other cars on the country road. "We've been so careful not to stay in one place for more than a few days. You said-" She caught her foot tapping nervously against the floor and stopped immediately. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked again.

Max nodded, his eyes in the mirror reassuring as they found hers. "I'm sure, honey." He let a few miles pass in silence. "To be honest," he said finally, "I thought this would all be over by now." His head turned in her direction for a moment. "I thought two, maybe three weeks and that gang of geniuses of yours would figure out a way to get you home." He shook his head. "But it's been two months . . ."

"Everyone is doing the best they can, Dad," she interrupted. "It's just . . . it's more complicated than we first realized."

"I know, but the point is when something isn't working, you try something else." When his eyes cut again to the mirror she was staring despondently out the window, and he knew it wasn't just the tinting that made her look pale. "This has been hard, Tempe, I know. And not just for you but for Slick there." His head jerked in the direction of the car seat. "She's been a trooper but babies need stability and a familiar place to sleep." He resettled his grip on the steering wheel. "That little ear problem last week, that was enough for me. I'm going to get you settled somewhere she can fall asleep in the same bed every night, somewhere you can feel more at home. It will be better for both of you."

Brennan played with the locking mechanism next to the window. "No matter where we are it won't be home, Dad," she whispered, her voice barely reaching his ears just inches away. "Home is Booth."

"I know, sweetheart," he told her gently. "We're going to work on that, too."

Several more minutes passed in silence before she spoke up again. "You know you have to stop calling her that before we go home, don't you? Booth won't appreciate that nickname."

"I know," Max grinned unrepentantly. "I figure I'll slip it in at the beginning, when he's too happy to have you back to complain." His teasing drew a smile from her, an unwilling smile he knew, but he was satisfied with it nonetheless.

They traveled in silence for several more minutes before she felt the SUV begin to slow. Carefully, Max turned off the main road onto a hard packed dirt and gravel lane surrounded on both sides by weeds and grass grown almost as tall as their vehicle. Rocks popped beneath the wheels as they drove over them.

"Tempe, honey, are you listening?" She met his eyes in the mirror and nodded. "When we get to the house, you stay in the car, okay? Don't move, don't reach for anything, just sit tight until I open your door and let you out. Got it? Don't worry about the baby, I'll go around and get her. You just get out slowly and keep your hands out away from your body. Understand?"

"Yes," she replied, meeting his reflection again before turning toward the window. She wasn't good at reading people, that had always been Booth's area of expertise, but it didn't require much effort to recognize the change that came over her father when a situation became serious. In an instant the jovial, laughing man she knew disappeared and in his place was someone hard and cunning and implacable. Even as she depended on him, that man frightened her.

The SUV left the shelter of the grass and bushes and came to a stop in a big open yard in front of a large, two story wood-frame house. A wide porch ran the length of the front, furnished with rocking chairs and a small table on one end and a big cushioned swing on the other. From the center of the porch, steps led down to the hard-packed yard while on the left side a handicapped ramp had been installed. Max threw the car in park and paused.

"Remember what I said, Temperance," he repeated without turning his head to look at her. "Don't move until I open the door for you."

"I understand." Brennan glanced once at her sleeping daughter and then watched the scene unfolding outside the vehicle intently. Max stood next to the car, his hands raised palms up in front of him. A minute, maybe two, crawled by before before the front door opened.

The man that stepped out onto the porch was in her general age group, she judged. Average height, with close-cropped sandy hair, the black t-shirt he wore beneath an unbuttoned plaid shirt fitting his lean form snugly.

"Mr. Keenan," he said. His face remained expressionless.

"Harland." She couldn't hear his face but the smile in Max's voice was audible. "How are you?"

"Can't complain," came the laconic reply. "How 'bout yourself?"

Max chuckled. "Well, as things go I've been better. But I can't complain either." He gestured to Brennan's door. "My daughter's in the seat behind me. I'm just going to let her out and then get the baby from the other side." He waited until Harland inclined his head once then opened Brennan's door. "Remember, honey," he whispered as she got out. "Hands out, no sudden moves."

Brennan did as instructed, moving slowly and deliberately and holding her hands out as she'd seen Max do. With her eyes on her father as he went around to take Christine out of her car seat, she only superficially registered the sound of the front door opening again.

"Oh my stars, Max." A woman's voice carried clearly across the yard. "It's like looking at Ruth twenty years ago."

Brennan's head swung in surprise toward the woman's voice. She was elderly, 70 if she was a day, and soft and plump. Max, Christine now awake in his arms, grinned across the open space at her.

"You get prettier every time I see you, Minnie," he teased. "When are you going to make an honest man out of me?"

"Hell," she snorted. "I don't have enough time left in the world to make you an honest man, Max Keenan. Now hurry up and bring Joy and the baby in the house before I get Harley all fussed by coming down there. Break a hip one time and the boy thinks I'm made a' glass."

Max passed Christine to Brennan and took the opportunity to kiss her cheek as she looked at him in confusion. "It will be okay, honey. You'll see."

Squaring her shoulders Brennan followed her father to the steps of the porch, glancing up at Harland in time to see him look past her shoulder and jerk his head slightly toward the house. Instinctively she turned to look toward the barns and outbuildings set back from the driveway; when her head swiveled forward she caught Harland's eye. His face was the same expressionless mask it had been when he spoke to her father, his grey eyes cool. With an imperious lift of her chin, she mirrored his steely calm and brushed past him. She didn't see the amused smile he hid behind her back.

At the top of the steps, Minnie waited with one hand on her ample bosom and tears in her eyes. "Oh, sweetie," she told Brennan, "you are just as pretty as you can be - and this baby!" She cupped her hand around Christine's soft curls. "I don't think I've ever seen a prettier one." Behind Brennan, Harland cleared his throat loudly. "Including you!" Minnie retorted and then ignored him. "It just kills me that Ruth isn't here to see this beautiful child, Max," she said. "It's just not fair."

"You knew my mother?" The question came out before she could prevent it.

Minnie glared at Max and slapped a hand hard against his shoulder. "You bring this girl here without telling her anything?" Clucking sympathetically, she turned back to Brennan. "Yes, honey, I knew your mama. I knew you," she added, "from the time you weren't much bigger than this one." When she looked at Max again she was laughing. "Remember, we used to put that little plastic kiddie pool under that tree," she pointed. "We'd put Joy and Harley in there and ten minutes later, they'd both be naked as the day they were born, and Kyle standing there screaming about somebody peeing in the water."

Max laughed, too, while behind her Harland groaned in complaint. "Mama . . ."

"Temperance," Brennan said suddenly. "My name is Temperance Brennan." She very carefully avoided looking at her father.

Minnie just smiled gently. "Of course it is, honey. I'll make sure I remember that. And you're Christine, aren't you?" she cooed, holding out her hands toward the dark haired little girl in Brennan's arms. "You wanna give your mama's arms a rest?"

"She doesn't really like strangers," Brennan began to protest before Christine reached out with one chubby fist toward the old woman.

"I'm not a stranger, am I?" Minnie asked, settling the baby in her arms with kisses on her cheeks and head. "I'm just Minnie." She reached for the screen door. "The boys'll get your stuff and take care of the vehicle," she said. "Y'all come on in and I'll show you what we set up."

.

.

.

.

Later that evening Brennan stepped out of the large bedroom she'd been given, carefully leaving the door ajar so she would hear Christine if she woke up. She could hear her father talking as she made her way down the hallway toward the living room.

"Still seems odd not to see Bird sitting in that chair," he said, looking toward an old recliner sitting empty near the fireplace.

"There are nights I start talking to him," Minnie admitted, "before I remember he's gone." She looked up when Brennan stepped into the room. "That little princess settled and asleep?" she asked with a smile.

"Yes." On her way to sit on the end of the sofa closest to Max, Brennan's attention was caught by a row of books on a wall of shelves. Her hand skipped over the spines of her own novels to the thick volumes that took up the rest of the space. "These are the textbooks I've written," she exclaimed. "Why would you have these?"

Minnie sipped from a glass of iced tea. "Max sent them to us," she replied. "Every time something came out with your name on it, we got a copy."

He just smiled when Brennan looked at him in surprise. More for something to busy her hands with as she contemplated this new bit of information about her father, she pulled out the first volume, the textbook she'd co-authored with Michael Stires. She opened it to see Max's familiar scribble. _Look __what __my __girl __did__! _he'd written. _She__'__s __brilliant__!_ It was signed and dated the year it had been released.

Eyes suddenly blurred with tears, she dropped the book with a thump and rushed out of the room. Max barely caught the screen door before it slammed behind her as she ran through the house and down the porch steps. Harland was right behind them but neither Max nor Brennan saw him stop in the doorway and wave one hand in the air as a signal to men they didn't know were watching. He waited until a light flashed twice from the loft of the barn and then went back inside.

Max caught up to her in the middle of the driveway. "Tempe . . ."

"You knew where I was." He heard the tears in her voice but she refused to turn and face him. "I knew that - I already knew that but that book . . ." She did turn then, her eyes wet and shining and accusing in the light that filtered out of the house. "You bought a _textbook__?_ You knew enough about me to buy the first textbook I wrote but you couldn't make contact with me?" She swiped angrily at the tears that fell. "I thought you were dead! And Mom _was_ dead and I didn't know that." She shook her head, confusion and something like horror written on her face. "Who are these people?" she hissed. "Why are we here?" She didn't give him a chance to reply. "I am not you," she cried, her voice breaking. "I am not you! I am only doing this to keep Booth safe," she insisted as her tears fell harder. "I am only doing this to keep Booth safe and to protect my daughter . . . my baby-" She covered her face with her hands and broke down.

Max pulled her unresisting form into his arms and held her tight. "Shhhh, honey," he murmured as she let go of two months of terror and frustration and anger. He rubbed her back and rocked her from side to side and let her cry, all the while continuing to whisper his love for her and apologizing over and over for the pain he and Ruth had inflicted on the most vulnerable of their children.

His own tears fell unheeded down his cheeks.

When her sobs finally abated he led her back up the steps to the swing at one end of the porch. He plucked a couple of paper napkins from the holder on the small table and passed them to her.

He knew how drained she was when she allowed him to put his arm around her and tuck her head against his shoulder.

"Is this what it was like for you and Mom?" she asked, her voice hoarse from the storm of weeping.

He exhaled. "It was worse," he answered, setting the swing moving with a squeak of rusty chains. "You haven't done anything wrong," he explained. "Your mother and I, we brought it all on ourselves. And then on you and Russ. We had to live with that, too."

For a few minutes the only sound was the swing announcing every movement forward and back.

"You never talk about her," Brennan whispered.

Max looked out into the dark yard. "You never ask."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked into the blue eyes she'd inherited, the same ones he'd passed to his granddaughter. He'd given up everything for her once, she realized, and now he was doing it again. She'd never even asked him what he'd left behind this time.

"I will," she promised.

"These people," he said, "Harland, Minnie, the others? They are going to help get you home." His smile was suddenly bright. "Harland is the one who's been working on the stuff you get from Angela. He may look like a farm boy but he graduated from MIT and there's nothing he can't do. If you two are together, you can work that much faster."

She looked at him with a bit of her old fire back. "They're criminals, Dad. Aren't they?"

"Well, yea," Max shrugged, his eyes twinkling. "The world is made of layers, honey, and each one is important in its own way. Some of them thrive out in the open and some of them work best when they're a little more . . . hidden."

Brennan shook her head. "There's so much wrong with that statement, I don't know where to start."

In an instant, the smiling was gone and Max's eyes turned cold. "I'm going to get you home, Tempe. It's been two months and that's two months too long."

She couldn't prevent the rush of fresh tears. "I want to go home, Dad," she whispered, dropping her head back on his shoulder. "I need Booth."

"I know, baby," he murmured into her hair as he kissed the top of her head. "I'm going to see that you get him back."

.

.

.

When Max left the little room above the kitchen the next morning, Brennan was seated at the table being fussed over by Minnie, who seemed determined to restock Brennan's plate after every bite she took. She looked at her father expectantly, her face dropping when he only smiled and wished her a good morning.

Max pretended not to notice each of the quick glances Brennan sent his way as he sipped his coffee and teased Minnie about the breakfast she'd prepared. He could tell she was beginning to stretch as thin as a piano wire when the front door opened and Harland entered. Looking over Brennan's shoulder, Max met the younger man's eyes.

Harland nodded, approached Brennan's chair and laid a phone beside her plate.

Her head swiveled around to look at the young man so fast, Max rubbed his own neck in sympathy. When she turned to him, he smiled. "Go ahead, honey." He nodded at Christine, who lay in an infant's bouncing seat on the table, happily chewing on her own fingers. "I'll keep an eye on Slick."

Brennan looked from her father to her baby, hesitated for the length of one heartbeat, then snatched the phone from the table and dashed out to the porch, leaving the screen door to slam behind her.

Harland poured himself a cup of coffee. "I can get you two and a half minutes," he said, nodding toward the porch.

Max looked disappointed. "That's it?" At Harland's shrug, Max sighed. "Well, it will have to do."

He watched Brennan watch the phone the rest of the morning. She touched it constantly, laying her hand across the face as if she could make it vibrate on command. From time to time she picked it up and pressed a few buttons to make sure it was working. She'd just put Christine down for an early afternoon nap when it beeped loudly and rattled on the table. Once again she grabbed for it and hurried outside.

Max waited a few minutes before he nodded at Harland and then walked out onto the porch. Brennan looked up in horror when he approached.

"No, Dad!" She clutched the phone to her chest frantically. "No, it's too soon! You have to give us more time than this! He just-"

"Honey," Max interrupted soothingly. "It's okay." He held out his hand. "May I?"

She handed the phone over reluctantly, staring at him bitterly when he took it from her hand. Her expression changed to confusion when he punched in a series of numbers.

The ringing on the other end was clearly audible, as was the deep voice that answered uncertainly. "Hello?"

Max smiled at his daughter as he spoke into the receiver. "You have two and a half minutes," he said simply and then handed the phone to Brennan.

"Happy birthday, honey."

He headed back inside to give her some privacy, the sound of her whispered, tear-filled "Booth?" breaking his own heart. It wasn't enough, but for now, it was all he could do.

For now.

.

.

* * *

.

_Since we don't know the actual date of Brennan's birthday, I'm using my authorial privilege (Is that a thing? If not, it is now!) and giving her mine - except that mine isn't today but it's close enough that this little fic is my present from me to me so I can let my love for all things Max shine on without feeling guilty about perhaps being less than impartial. Because I'm not impartial when it comes to Max. I Love Love Adore Him._

_Minnie (and Bird, God rest his soul) can be found in one of my first stories, _On the Run. _A note of warning - I spell Tempe "Tempy" in that fic. If you're one of those people who get really irritated at that kind of mistake (i) yay for me and (ii) meh. It was one of the first stories I wrote, it is what it is and I'm not changing it. So, there you go._

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	9. Week Ten

All week long he berated himself for what he didn't say.

She'd been right there . . . right there on the other end of the phone, real in a way that text messages just weren't.

And he'd blanked.

Not completely, of course. He'd said . . . what? What had he said? Almost as soon as Max ended the call Booth had struggled to remember exactly what he and Brennan had said to each other.

The only words burned into his memory were her last . . .

_Dad__, __please__ . . . __just one __minute __more__ . . . __please__ . . . _

_Honey__, __I__'__m __sorry__. __It__'__s __not __safe__. __Harland __could __only __guarantee __two __and __a __half__ . . . _

And the line had gone dead.

There were no text messages to follow up the phone call.

Who the hell was Harland?

One of Max's friends, obviously. Someone he trusted enough to enlist for help with scrambling a phone signal, just in case anyone was listening.

_Booth__?_

That's what he heard in his dreams now. The tears behind her voice when she said his name.

_Dad__, __please__ . . . _

More tears as she pleaded with her father.

In fact, he was pretty sure she'd cried for the entire two and a half minutes of the phone call.

He knew he had.

They'd said _I love you_, that much he knew for sure. Repeatedly . . . speaking over each other . . . a rush of words or a barely audible whisper . . . the same thing again and again . . . _I love you._ Both of them needing to say it as much as they needed to hear it.

_I __love __you__._

He was pretty sure he'd begged her to come home. He thought he'd demanded she tell him where she was.

She had apologized. He remembered that, too, in a litany that made his very soul ache when the words danced through his memory.

_I__'__m __so __sorry__, __Booth__.  
I __love __you __so __much__.  
I__'__m __so __sorry__.  
I__'__m __so __sorry__._

There were so many things he wished he'd said. If only he'd known . . . if only he'd been prepared . . .

Max could have warned him! His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he stared grimly out at traffic. Goddamn bastard apparently had the whole goddamn city in his goddamn back pocket. Max could have warned him. Max could have found a way to let him know ahead of time instead of blindsiding him with a phone that rang out of the blue. The bastard had to know Booth had tried before to dial the different numbers attached to Brennan's text messages, only to find silence.

Son of a bitch.

Bastard.

Max could have warned him.

When she and Christine were finally home safe and sound, when he wasn't consumed with worry and fear and guilt, he was going to find that old man and . . .

And thank him for keeping them safe. Booth's shoulders dropped as his eyes closed briefly. God only knew what might have happened to Brennan, to his family, without that wily old reprobate.

The bastard still could have warned him.

Clinging to his irritation, he frowned at the sound of tires squealing as he took the turn into the parking lot of the farmer's market a little too fast. When he had to go back to the car for the shopping bags he left in the trunk, he forced himself to stop and relax. He could be angry at home, when his whole world wasn't riding on a clear head and an observant eye.

Thirty minutes later he nodded casually to the familiar sunburned farmer behind the produce stand. He added vegetables to the basket provided and picked up tomatoes and corn and waited for the show to begin. With each person or couple or family who approached the display, he went on alert and prepared to be distracted.

Nothing happened.

Trying not to show his confusion, Booth finally passed over the basket to be sorted and weighed.

"A little quiet here today," he said, hoping his words sounded like casual musings to anyone who might overhear.

The farmer grunted as he counted peaches. "Yea. Place is empty this morning."

Booth looked around at the usual mass of shoppers all chattering loudly and wandering from stall to stall.

"Empty?" he repeated.

"Yep." Cool grey eyes met his own. "Guess some people finally decided to shop elsewhere. Want me to use that bag?" Head buzzing, Booth obediently slipped the handles from his wrist and passed it over. "Me, that's the way I like it," the other man continued as he filled it with the fruits and vegetables from the basket. "I'm always ready for the crowd, you understand, but I prefer to take care of business without a lot of racket going on." He held a tomato up to the light. "This one is bruised, I think. Why don't you get yourself another?"

"Yea, sure . . ." Distracted, Booth picked through the bin. So he wasn't being tailed this morning? And if he had been, they'd know it?

Who the hell were these people?

When he finally grabbed a tomato at random and handed it over, the farmer was holding the full bag of produce out to him. Booth let out a huff of laughter as he dropped the fruit gently on top.

He reached for his wallet.

The taciturn figure behind the stand waved him off. "It's on the house."

"On the house." Booth looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"Since the place is empty."

His fingers clenched around the handle of the bag. "Where are they?" he gritted out. "Just tell me where . . ."

Suddenly he was shoved from behind as an argument between two men metamorphosed into a physical altercation. The smaller man fell against a table holding cantaloupe and melon, sending the crates tumbling. The farmer jerked him to his feet by the back of his collar.

"I hope you've got your wallet with you, asshole. You're paying for any damages."

Booth took the hint and walked away, but not before he realized he'd left one very obvious thread dangling.

And it was time to see where it led.

.

.

* * *

_.  
_

_.  
_

_Poor Booth and Brennan. They can't even get two and a half minutes of privacy without everyone wanting to listen in. tsk tsk tsk_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	10. Week Eleven

_AN: I have to say, I was very gratified by the number of reviews and emails asking "what thread?" after the last chapter. That tells me you can't predict the ending of this story yet, and that's a good feeling. Yay, me. :-) _

_.  
_

_.  
_

_._

* * *

_.  
_

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Booth hit a speed dial number on his phone. "What's for dinner tonight?"

Angela paused for a split second. "Something wonderful, I'm sure. 7:00?"

"I'll be there," he answered and hung up.

Hodgins looked up curiously from his place on the floor beside Michael. "Booth is coming for dinner tonight." Angela answered his unspoken question as she folded her legs beneath her and passed blocks one by one to her son.

"What's he got?" Hodgins asked immediately.

"He didn't say," Angela shrugged, shifting out of the way as Michael gleefully toppled the tower he'd just built. "I guess we'll find out when he gets here."

When she opened the door to him a few hours later it was impossible not to notice the fire in his expression and the new sense of purpose that carried him in long strides straight back to her studio, where an array of computer equipment occupied one long wall.

"Has something happened with Brennan?" Angela asked hopefully. "Did you hear something?"

"You got anything for me?" Booth avoided answering her directly.

Hodgins wandered in with Michael in his arms and watched them both carefully.

"Not yet," Angela admitted. "I think I'm getting there but-"

Booth interrupted her abruptly. "I need a favor."

"Of course," she nodded immediately. "Anything."

"You know that farmer's market we use?"

"The one on Wisconsin?" Angela asked. "Sure. We shop there, too."

"Do you think you can get me a layout of the inside?" Booth asked. "With the vendors marked off?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "Let me see what I can find."

Within a few minutes she was pulling a diagram from the printer. "This is just the interior, with the permanent spaces," she told him as she passed the page to him. "The stands that set up outside are more transient and change from week to week."

Booth spread the sheet out on the desk, put his finger on the main entrance and began marking off sections. Then he found the second entrance and counted back from that location. When he arrived at the same place, he tapped it with one long finger.

"This one," he said. "447. Who's in that space?"

Angela turned back to her computer. "H&N Farms," she answered. She clicked on a superscript symbol beside the name and was immediately taken to the bottom of the screen. "It says they were one of the founding members of the market when it opened in 1972."

"Huh." Booth rubbed at his jaw, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he stared past Angela to her computer. "I need you to find out what you can about them, Angela," he said. "But be careful. Don't dig too deep," he warned. "I don't want to set off any alarms, okay? Just find out what's out there, in public, and let me know."

"Why?" Hodgins, who had been watching silently until that point, suddenly interrupted. "What's this got to do with Brennan?"

Booth hesitated. He knew all about the elaborate network of drop box locations Max had arranged for the flash drives that were sent to Angela at regular intervals and she and Hodgins knew he had his own way of communicating with Brennan but up till now, he had closely guarded the secret behind his weekly conversations. It wasn't a lack of trust on his part, he acknowledged to himself, it was fear. For a handful of minutes every week he was connected to her again, holding a tin can attached to a string that stretched over the horizon. His peace of mind - his very sanity - depended on the knowledge that at the other end, she was there, too. That fragile thread was all he had and the thought of losing it terrified him.

He sank down into a nearby chair and closed his eyes. Eleven weeks. 77 days. Two and a half months. This had to end.

He released a deep breath then, without opening his eyes, began to speak.

By the time he finished, Angela was staring wide-eyed in terror while Hodgins looked on with something like awe.

"That's . . ." He shook his head and laughed. "That's ingenious."

Booth stared at his feet. "Max," he said simply, with a glance at the scientist. "He set it all up."

Angela shook her head as if to clear it. "Do you think these people . . . do you think they know where he and Brennan are?"

Booth stood and began to pace. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe not. But they're a connection and I - I've got to do something," he said, his agitation visible. "I've been following along behind you people, begging for crumbs and chasing my tail for almost three months. I'm done," he hissed fiercely. "That stops now." Angela jumped along with the items on her desk when Booth slammed his fist down hard. "You do what you do," he told them, waving a finger between. "I'm going to do what I do. I'm going to find Bones." He captured Angela's eyes with his own. "Get me what you can on that farm but be careful." His jaw clenched. "If they know I'm looking they might just disappear and-"

"I won't leave a trace," she promised earnestly.

He nodded and pivoted on one foot, then paused at the door. "Thanks for dinner." His smile was brief and tight and then he was gone.

Angela rushed to follow him. "But we haven't-" The sound of their front door closing ended her flow of words. She looked back at Hodgins with an exaggerated shrug. "We haven't had dinner yet."

Hodgins smiled and passed a squirming Michael over to her. "I guess we're having leftovers for lunch tomorrow."

.

.

Finally, it was Saturday again. Another Saturday, another trip to the market. Another quiet trip, just like last week, with no theatrics or distractions or out-of-the-blue performances. He held himself in check this time, too, and deliberately turned his back on the farmer after he passed his shopping bag over to be filled. _See_, he muttered silently. _I __can __play __nice__, __too__. __For __now__._ Because there were other customers there - real customers - he handed over the marked $20 and got it back again with his change. He stuffed the money in his pocket without looking, murmured a quiet thanks and walked away.

The entire exchange was over in ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.

That's what his life had become - six days of waiting for fifteen minutes. And a phone.

When he got home he left the produce on the counter and carried the phone into the room she'd furnished as an office. Sitting at her desk, looking around at the bits and pieces of her professional life scattered throughout the room, everything just as she'd left it, he could almost believe she was right outside the door. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost hear her voice.

Instead he turned on the phone.

They were safe and well.  
He missed them.  
They both said _I __love __you__._

And then she thrust a dagger into his heart. Christine was now rolling freely from her back to her front.

_im __missng __so __much_

_I __have __pictures__. __Photographs __and __videos__. __Dad __took __my __phone __so __I __wouldn__'__t __be __tempted __to __turn __it __on __but __he __bought __a __camera __and __we__'__ve __taken __pictures __every__day__._

_We __already __have __four __memory __cards __filled__. __There __are __hundreds __of __photos __and __hours __of __video__. __I __know __it__'__s __not __the __same __but __you__'__ll __be __able __to __see __everything__. __I__'__ve __documented __everything__._

_that __wl __b __nice__. __ill __watch __it __all_

_I__'__m __sorry__, __Booth__. __Babies __change __so __quickly __during __this __period __of __infancy__, __her __development __is __so __rapid__ - __I__'__m __sorry__. _

_i __no__. __me__ 2_

_I also __want __you __to __know __that __my __feelings __for __you __haven__'__t __changed__. __I __love __you__. __I __still __love __you__._

He stared at the phone, his heart pounding.

_what__?_

_My __feelings __haven__'__t __changed__. __I __know __love __can __be __fleeting __and __transitory __but __I __want __you __to __know __that __I __still __love __you__. __And __I __hope __that __time __and __distance __haven__'__t __damaged __your __feelings __for __me__._

The edges of the phone cut into his fingers.

_stop__!_

_I__'__ve __read __that __long __separations __can __damage __a __relationship __but __I __felt __it __was __important __to __tell __you __that __I __haven__'__t __changed__. __My __own __feelings __haven__'__t __changed__. _

A white hot tide of fury rushed over him.

_BONES __SHUT __UP__!_

His fingers pressed so hard into the keys as he rushed to get the words out that he feared for moment he might break the phone.

_dont __say __anothr __word __u __just __listn__ 2 __me  
n __dont __give __me __bullshit __abt __seeng__/__readng __instd __of __listening__. __u __no __what __i __mean  
this __will __not __break __us__. __u __hear __me__?  
we __r __not __fleetng __or __anythg __else__.  
we __r __us__. __u __n __me  
i __love __u  
we __workd__ 2 __hard__ 2 __get __this __far  
u hear me?  
this __will __not __break __us  
we __might __have__ 2 __adjust __when __u __get __back  
things __might __b __diff__ 4/__while __but __well __make __it  
i __love __u  
this __will __not __break __us__. __n__ 50 __yrs __well __look __back __n __laugh  
u __hear __me__?  
this __will __not __break __us_

His breathing returned to normal slowly, even as traces of anger remained to sizzle along his nerve endings.

_bones__?_

_May __I __respond __now__?_

_yea__. __sorry __i __told __u__ 2 __shut __up_

_I__'__m __sorry __I __made __you __angry__. __You__'__re __right__. __Of __course __you__'__re __right__. __We __will __survive __this__._

_we __will_

_I __love __you__, __Booth__._

_i __love __u __baby_

_I __seem __to __be __making __everyone __angry __today__. __Dad __is __yelling __at __me__, __too__._

_tell __max__ 2 __go __the __hell __away_

_He __came __out __several __minutes __ago__. __I __ran __away __from __him__._

_u __ran __away__?_

_Yes__. __There__'__s __a __porch __swing__ - __I __was __sitting __there __when __he __came __out __but __it __was __in __the __middle __of __your __message __stream __so __I __ran __away __to __avoid __him__._

_He __came __after __me__, __of __course__, __but __I__'__m __sitting __in __a __tree __so __he __can__'__t __reach __me__. __He__'__s __below __me__, __still __yelling__._

He read that twice and then started laughing, the last of his anger fading into the thought of Brennan perched on a sturdy limb while Max screamed in frustration below.

_u __climbed __a __tree__?_

_Yes__. __It__'__s __a __rather __precarious __position__. __I__'__m __having __second __thoughts __about __building __a __treehouse __for __Christine__._

_i __love __u __bones__._

_I __love __you__, __Booth__. __I__'__m __sorry__. __It __was __not __my __intention __to __make __you __angry__, __I __just __wanted __you __to __know __that __my __feelings __have __not __changed__._

_i __already __nu __that__, __baby__. __better __give __the __phone__ 2 __max __b__4 __he __has __a __stroke__. __i __love __u__._

_I __love __you__, __Booth__._

_i __love __u_

When the phone stayed stubbornly silent, he let it fall to her desk and dropped his head in his hands.

She was afraid a few months could change how he felt? Seven years, thousands of miles and one blonde reporter hadn't changed the way he felt about her, why the hell would a few months apart, even as horrible as they'd been?

In a sudden moment of rage, he picked up the phone and threw it out the open door. It sailed over the banister and seconds later, he heard it shatter on the floor below.

This had to end. Now.

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* * *

_Remember at the end of S7 when someone asked how long Brennan would be gone? HH - or SN, I can't remember which one it was - said "She'll be gone about as long as we will." So when the premiere date for S8 was announced, I counted it up and voila! 18 weeks. _

_But now, according to interviews after SDCC, they've decided she's been gone "a couple of months." Well no one asked me if that was okay. I planned 18 weeks, dammit! How dare the show's actual writers change their minds on me like that! That's just rude.  
_

_I have 18 weeks, dammit. So, 18 weeks you'll get.  
_

_Take that, HH&Co.  
_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	11. Week Twelve

"You seem pensive." Max stood at the doorway to the porch and looked out at his daughter staring absently into the moonlight-dappled yard.

She straightened instantly. "Is Christine-"

"Nah," he shook his head and opened the door. "Haven't heard a peep since you put her down for the night." He took a seat in the empty space on the swing beside Brennan and draped one arm around her shoulders. "I've got a penny's worth of gumdrops," he teased gently, using a familiar phrase from her childhood to coax out her thoughts.

"It's nothing," she sighed. "I've just been thinking about something Harland said earlier."

Max's hand rested easily on the curve of her upper arm. "Shouldn't you be happier? It's good news, isn't it? One step closer to getting you home."

"Yes," she nodded immediately. "I am very happy. Now that he knows how Christopher Pelant manipulated the surveillance footage, Harland said he'll be able to prove that it really was tampered with. That's one piece of evidence they won't be able to use against me anymore."

"So why aren't you celebrating?" Max asked quietly.

Brennan shrugged. "He still needs the original footage," she answered. "At the very least a few minutes from the night I actually was there visiting Ethan." She nibbled at her lower lip. "I don't know how he expects to find any of that. I'm sure it's been destroyed or erased by now. That was months ago."

"Well," her father dug the heel of one shoe into the wooden slats of the floor and set the swing in motion, "I don't know, either, but if he says he can get it, my money's on Harland."

Brennan grimaced. "He's very irritating."

Max just chuckled. "Is he?"

She huffed loudly. "He said he was sorry he didn't remember being naked in the children's pool with me, but if I wanted to refresh his memory he was willing to find another pool."

Max looked at the stubborn set of her chin and bit back the bubble of laughter that arose. "Does he need medical attention?"

She rolled her eyes . "He was laughing at me."

"Well, honey," he squeezed her arm, "I think we could all use some laughter right now."

"He said . . ." She hesitated briefly. "He said he was here when Mom died."

Max closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, looked up at the stars instead of at her. "Was he? I don't remember but then, those days are kind of a blur for me."

"I didn't realize her original burial site was nearby." Brennan's voice was carefully even.

"Yea." He cleared his throat with a cough. "Bird knew the cemetery - it was old, no one expected . . ."

"New graves to be dug," she finished for him when his voice trailed off into silence. Father and daughter locked eyes for a brief, sad moment.

"I can show you, if you want," Max offered tentatively. "Tomorrow or . . . It's not far, we wouldn't have to drive if we walked around the edge of the cornfield . . . It's pretty . . ."

"Well, she's not there-" Brennan began automatically.

_Just __for __once__, __Bones__, __do __what __people __do__. __Okay__? __See __how __it __feels__. _Booth's words as she'd stood by the grave she'd purchased for her mother echoed in her head, along with an image of the tiny dolphin her father had left there in remembrance of the woman he'd loved.

"I'd like that," she said instead and was rewarded with her father's bright smile.

"Good, then," he nodded, almost painfully grateful. "Good. We'll do that." He hugged her close with one arm.

"Dad . . ." Brennan pulled away and turned in the swing to face him fully. "How do I explain this to Booth?" she asked. "When I go home, how do I explain this? Where we've been, who we've been with . . . what I've seen . . . " she paused and then rushed ahead. "That barn - there are generators and an HVAC unit beside it. When I'm up at night with Christine," her voice dropped to a whisper, "I can see men patrolling outside." She leaned in closer to Max. "Harland - he said his business is _secrets_ and I don't know what that means but I do know he's dangerous," she insisted. "And yet he's helping me - us," she added quickly, "and he doesn't seem to care that when I go home, I could tell Booth everything." Her eyes betrayed worry and fear. "He said - he said Booth won't ask. He said Booth knows you and he won't ask because he won't want to know the truth." She reached out for her father's hand. "What does that mean?" she asked. "That he won't ask because I ran away so he doesn't trust me anymore to tell him the truth?"

"No, sweetheart," Max immediately shook his head. "No, it doesn't mean that at all." He turned his hand over and gripped her fingers hard. "Look, you know what Booth did in the army right? You know he was a sniper?" She nodded slowly, uncomprehendingly. "You know what he was," Max continued, "but you don't really know what he did," he explained significantly. "And he doesn't tell you everything because he doesn't want to put that burden on you. This," he shrugged, "this is something . . . it's sort of like that. It's the burden you both have to carry." He could see the beginning of understanding in her face as she considered his words. "He knows you're safe and he knows I'll do what I have to do to make sure you stay that way. He won't ask for the details because," he smiled, "when we finally get you home, you'll both want to put this behind you and get on with your lives again. This will all just be a bad dream you'll both want to forget."

Brennan looked down at their entwined fingers. "What if we can't, Dad?" she said softly, her voice thick with tears. "What if I've ruined everything by leaving?" She looked up then, silently begging for reassurance that her fears were groundless.

"Honey." Max brushed a lock of dark hair away from her cheek. "You know what the last thing he said to me was? '_You __tell __Bones __I__'__m __going __to __get __my __family __back__.' _That's all he was thinking about - you and Christine and bringing you home. Come here," he said as he wrapped her against his chest. "He's going to be angry and hurt but when things get rough, you're both just going to have to hold on to each other harder, that's all. You'll be fine. I promise."

.

.

.

.

_Are __you __very __angry __with __me__?_

_what__?_

_I__'__m __trying __to __prepare __for __our __return __home __so __that __I __don__'__t __say __or __do __the __wrong __thing__._

_I __know __I __hurt __you __terribly __by __leaving __the __way __I __did __but __I __don__'__t __know __if __you__'__re __more __angry __than __hurt__._

_I __just __don__'__t __want __to __say __or __do __the __wrong __thing__._

_u __cant __prepare__ 4 __this __bones_

_its not like a test u can study 4  
_

_look __i __dont __no __how __i __feel__ 1 __day__ 2 __the __nxt__. __it __changes_

_1 __day __im __just __mad __n __the __nxt __day __i __undrstnd __but __it __hurts_

_u __cant __figur __this __out __ahead __of __time__. _

_it __doesnt __work __like __that_

_of __course __im __mad_

_u __jst __left __bones_

_u __jst __left__. _

_and __u __didnt __talk__ 2 __me__. _

_u __didnt __warn __me_

_u __didnt __ask __me __if __i __wanted__ 2 __go __w__/__u_

_u __didnt __ask __me __what __was __more __imp 2 me__, __u __and __C __or __my __job_

_u __jst __left_

_u __jst __left __me __standing __n __the middl of the goddamn __street __watching __u __disappear_

_again! _

_u __no __how __many __times __ive __done __that__? __watched __u __drive __away__?_

_u __didnt __give __me __a __choice__._

_u __jst __left__._

_so __yea __i__'__m __pissed__._

_and __im __hurt__._

_but __i __love __u __more__._

_ok? i love u MORE  
_

_theres __no __preparing __for __how __its __gonna __b __when __u __get __home __b__/__c __every day __will __b __diff_

_but __well __take __it __day__/__day __and __get __thru __it_

_that __much __i __can __promise_

_._

_._

_._

_hey__? _

_still __there__?_

_Yes__. __I __love __you__, __Booth__._

_i __love __u __baby__. _

_come __home__. __then __well __work __on __evrything __else_

_.  
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* * *

_.  
_

_AN: Okay, so I've seen the titles to the first couple of episodes and I've read the trolling quotes from DB about how "they might break up" blah blah blah. I don't buy it. Maybe this is just my hopeless fucking romantic side showing again, but I say Ni! In my fluffy, happy-ever-after _Bones_-world, this is going to hurt - for both of them - but they'll get through it. They're the center, right? Right. And the center will hold. _

_Cue the sappy love song.  
_

_(Thanks for reading!)  
_


	12. Week Thirteen

_AN: I haven't said thank you enough lately for the reviews you are all leaving because, frankly, you're overwhelming me. That sounds like a humblebrag, I know, but it's not - pinkie swear. It is 100% amazed and happy gratitude. Cross my heart, hope to die (and you know the rest). I wasn't going to write a hiatus fic at all, and then I was only going to do that one chapter and okay, then I had a couple of other ideas and now . . . well, now look where I am! Thank you - for reading this story, for keeping up when I moved it from _160 Characters_, for letting me work through my angst, and for saying all the nice things you've said in reviews. I'm more grateful than you know._

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"No way, Jose." Angela pushed Booth down the hallway to the kitchen. "We're doing this my way tonight. Sit," she ordered, pointing to a chair at the table in front of which was a plate piled high with pasta. "Food first, then work."

Booth resisted. "I'm not hungry, Ange . . ."

"Yea and from the looks of you," she grumbled, "you haven't been hungry since Brennan left. She is going to flip her lid when she sees you," she pouted, "and probably blame me. Sit down and eat."

"I'd just give in if I were you, man," Hodgins laughed as he settled Michael into his high chair with his own tiny plate. "It's easier."

With ill grace, Booth pulled out the chair and sat. "Why would Bones blame you for me not eating?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I'm not your responsibility." He picked up a fork and twirled it in the spaghetti.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Angela asked rhetorically. "But I'm not taking any chances. Eat." When she was satisfied with the amount of food Booth consumed, she gave into his pointed look and led him back to her studio. Hodgins quickly pulled a few random noodles from Michael's hair, wiped him down and followed in their wake.

"I wasn't really sure what I was looking for," she began, "so I started with the market. You told me not to leave any traces," she said over her shoulder, "so I had to go back to microfiche-"

Michael toddled over to a brightly colored standing activity center and played with the knobs and buttons while the grownups talked above his head.

"I know it was extra work," Booth interrupted to apologize, "but-"

"That wasn't a complaint," Angela cut him off, "I'm just explaining why it's taking me so long to pull all of this stuff together. Anyway," she pulled a few stapled sheets of paper from a thin file and laid them down in front of Booth. "I found this. It's a copy of the original lease that H&N Farms signed when they opened the market on Wisconsin in 1972. Look at the signatures." She tapped her finger down a row of scrawled names.

"Levi Parrish," Booth read. "And . . . Max Keenan."

"Yea. So," Angela continued, "I got curious. I mean, why would Max be interested in a farmer's market, you know? Even back then?"

"Money laundering," Hodgins said immediately, then grabbed Michael before he could tip over an easel on which rested an unfinished painting.

"But one farmer's market?" Angela asked incredulously as she looked from her husband to Booth. "How much money could you hide with one just a single market?" She paused dramatically. "Unless there wasn't just one."

She spread a map marked with bright red circles across her desk. "Look." Her finger followed her recital as she listed each city. "Chicago. Detroit. Philadelphia. Baltimore. DC. Atlanta. Miami." She watched Booth studying the map intently. "That's just what I've found so far and I haven't looked in New York or New Jersey or any further west than Chicago. There could be more," she shrugged. "There probably are more. The earliest so far was the one in Chicago, in 1971. This one in Miami opened in '79, but-"

Hodgins peered over Booth's shoulder. "I'm going to say it," he said excitedly, lifting Michael high into the air. "We have a conspiracy, baby!"

Ignoring the other man as he launched enthusiastically into a complex theory of greed and world domination wrapped around the sale of home-grown tomatoes, Booth stared silently at the map and tried to find a pattern. His eyes moved from one city to the next as he focused on each smudgy red circle and considered what he knew about Max Keenan, along with what he'd experienced over the last few months. The bit players in his weekly drama at the farmer's market walked through his memory. A little boy named Kyle. _"Do you have Joy in your heart?"_ Dorothy. The farmer. Max. Max and Ruth. Max . . . and Ruth . . .

The pieces slid into place.

" . . . the Freemasons have always planned . . .

"They were setting up a network." His quiet voice instantly stopped Hodgins' ramblings.

Angela's attention was focused on Booth. "What do you mean?"

"Max and Ruth," Booth explained, and his gut told him he was right. "They robbed safety deposit boxes. Never got caught." He looked from Hodgins to Angela. "What if they didn't just get lucky? What if they knew who to hit? What if they went in knowing exactly what they were looking for?"

Angela nodded. "Well, that would explain this." She withdrew another lease and flipped through the pages. "Miami, 1979. Only one signature - Levi Parrish."

Booth didn't even look at the page. "Because in 1978, Max Keenan became-"

"Matthew Brennan," Angela finished the sentence with him.

"And Max and Ruth Keenan disappeared."

Hodgins placed a struggling Michael in front of Angela's keyboard and let him bang away. "So what do you think happened to that network without the Keenans? You think it's still active?"

Booth considered again the stream of people he'd met at the farmer's market and laughed humorlessly. "Oh, it's definitely active," he said. "And they're hiding Bones." He knew it. Instinctively and without any doubt, he knew.

"So," Angela asked with a shrug, "what do you want me to do now? Continue searching for the markets they opened? Or-"

"No," Booth shook his head. One hand rubbed at his scruffy chin as he paced and thought out loud. "These markets," he waved at the map, "they're all still open?"

"Yes," Angela nodded.

"So, they've got to get their produce somewhere, right?" He looked from Angela to Hodgins. "I mean, the one here? They're always stocked. Where does all of that come from?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Unless they buy it from someone else and resell it, they've got land - farms - near every one of those markets." He grinned somewhat half-heartedly at Angela. "I know it's asking a lot but do you think you could look into that? Look for properties owned by H&N or Parrish or Max or, hell," he rubbed a weary hand over his hair. "I don't know. Any combination of any of it."

Angela and Hodgins exchanged a concern-filled glance and then she nodded. "Sure," she said. "I'll see what I can find." She left unspoken the words _needle in a haystack_, along with any comment about the number of properties to be searched or the difficulty of tracing deeds now more than 30 years old and all without, theoretically, leaving any traces. Instead she watched him pace and her heart broke for him all over again as she cataloged the changes the past months had wrought. There were traces of silver now in the hair at his temples and new lines etched into his face by worry and too many sleepless nights. His frame was leaner, the angles of his body sharper and beneath it all, a current of tightly leashed danger simmered. She could see it and everyone around him could feel it and the longer Brennan stayed gone, the more tenuous his control became.

Angela saw it all and felt it all. Resolved, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. It was just a few million acres to search. How hard could it be?

.

.

.

Booth left the FBI-issued black SUV parked in the driveway and entered the house through the front door. He tossed his keys to the top of the small table just to the right of the foyer and walked straight to the kitchen, loosening his tie as he went. He'd just hit the light switch when he felt the air move behind him.

His gun was in his hands immediately as he spun around.

"I'm not armed." The man standing in the living room held his palms at shoulder height, up and away from his body. "Feel free to check," he offered evenly.

"Who the fuck are you?" Booth ground out as he approached slowly. "And how in the goddamn hell did you get in my house?" He put the barrel of his gun beneath the man's chin, forcing it up and back as he searched one-handed for any hidden weapons. Cool grey eyes held his without flinching. "Well?"

"I prefer to talk without a gun in my throat," his unwelcome guest said calmly.

The mechanical rattle was a roar in the stillness when Booth released the safety and pushed it against the trespasser's skin harder. "You're lucky I'm letting you talk at all," he threatened softly.

For several minutes the silence in the room was only barely broken by the quiet, even breathing of both men. Neither flinched from the others stare. Finally, Booth lowered the gun by slow fractions and stepped back two paces, keeping his visitor in front of him and his pistol at the ready, the safety once more engaged. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded again.

"You're poking around where you shouldn't be," was the answer he got. "I'm here to," the man shrugged tauntingly, "ask you nicely to stop."

Booth went cold as he thought of the evening just spent with Jack and Angela, what she'd found . . . what he'd asked her to do now. Then his pulse began to race as he realized the intruder in front of him must have a connection to Max. Or Brennan. He stared warily at the sandy-haired younger man. "I just want my family back," he answered in a harsh rasp.

"Well," the man replied, one side of his mouth lifting in a mocking grin, "you can't have them yet."

The thin leash of control Booth had struggled for so long to maintain snapped in an instant. He tossed his weapon to the sofa as he took those two steps forward again, gripped the other man by his shirt collar and lifted him to his toes. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He bared his teeth with savage fury and shook his prey lightly.

The grey eyes staring back at him turned hard as flint. "Go ahead," he whispered without fear, his quiet voice a simple threat. "But just so you know," he added with another jeering curl of his lip, "I hit back."

Booth was tempted to give in to that unveiled invitation. So tempted. For long tense minutes Booth held the man there with hands knotted in the collar of the white shirt he wore . . . and fought the impulse to lash out with clenched fists. His uninvited guest was just a few inches shorter, just a few years younger and, judging by the heavier than expected weight, his lean frame was covered in strong ropes of muscle. It would be a fair fight.

If that's what he wanted, Booth realized, this man would give it to him. He was sure he'd come out on top . . . he was pretty sure he'd come out on top . . . but he could also tell they would both pay a heavy price regardless of who emerged victorious.

And this guy was connected to Max. Or to Brennan.

Decision made, anger under control again - for the moment - Booth let him go with a shove. His guest skipped back gracefully then smoothed the wrinkled shirt with one sharp tug at the waist. And all the time, those grey eyes remained latched on his.

"Shall we start again?" he offered sarcastically. "Let's go back to the part where you're poking around in business that doesn't concern you."

"I'm just trying to find my family." Booth crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the other man belligerently.

"And I'm just trying to protect mine," the visitor said. "Which is a little ironic, since protecting yours is why we're having this little conversation to begin with."

"So send mine home to me." Booth bit out. "I'll protect them and you can do whatever the hell you want with yours."

"Yea?" The mocking smile was back. "Your neighbors across the street, did you know their security camera was trained on your house?" Startled, Booth looked toward the window. "I couldn't tell off-hand where the feed was going but it definitely wasn't to the alarm company." When Booth's eyes returned to his, the other man smiled smugly. "Oh, don't worry. I fixed it." He lowered his head gracefully. "You're welcome."

Booth glared back and suddenly wished he'd hit him after all.

"I promised Max," his guest said softly. "I promised Max I'd make it safe for his daughter to go home and that's what I'm doing. We're almost there," he added, and his voice was almost gentle. "So be patient." The grey eyes turned hard again. "And stop poking around."

It was Booth's turn to smile tauntingly. "What are you afraid I'll find?"

The young man mirrored his expression. "Oh, you won't find anything," he said softly. "But that doesn't mean I want you looking. So stop."

He bent down and laid a small black flash drive on the coffee table. "If your computer goddess needs something to keep her busy, have her work on that." He lifted an eyebrow. "I figured out how Pelant reworked the surveillance footage. I've given her enough to help her figure it out, too."

Booth stared at the flash drive in frustration. "Why don't you just tell her how you did it?"

The guest lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "I can't do that," he shook his head. "How would she learn?" He headed toward the door then stopped with a snap of his fingers. "Oh, one more thing." He pulled a slim black phone from the pocket of his jeans and laid it down beside the flash drive. "That's for tomorrow," he told an open-mouthed Booth. "It won't work until noon so I wouldn't bother turning it on tonight but," he smirked. "I'm sure you will anyway."

As he passed by on his way to the front door, the younger man slapped Booth on the shoulder. "I won't tell Temperance you said hello because she'll just be mad that I was here," he said slyly. "I'm pretty sure I could take you," he smirked as he razed Booth with a glance up and down, "but then she'd probably kick my ass." With one hand on the door handle he looked back. "You know, you should eat something, Seeley. You look a little peaky."

The door closed with a soft click while Booth stood frozen in place for the span of a few minutes. When his paralysis ended, he grabbed for his phone.

"Angela?" He barely gave her time to speak. "The property search? Start here and work your way out."

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.

.

_They were safe and well._

_He missed them._

_They loved each other._

What he didn't say was that now, by God, he knew they were somewhere close.

.

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* * *

_I ruthlessly cut Harland's scenes out of last week's chapter and I just could not do it to him again. I think I'm halfway in love with the guy - he has such a dark side and he's so fierce and devious. Gah, love. Swear to God, if I ever decide to write a 'real' book by changing a few names and pretending it's not fanfiction (looking at you, EL James!) I may start with Harland. Actually, no, I'd probably start with Abe and TJ but then I'd go with Harland. Definitely.  
_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	13. Week Fourteen

Max looked over his shoulder curiously when the screen door opened. His face tightened before he lowered his newspaper, carefully placed his coffee mug on the table in front of him and turned around.

"We expected you back a few days ago," he said, his tone deliberately even.

Harland shrugged. "I had business of my own to see to after I took care of yours." He nodded toward the coffee pot. "That fresh?" When Max nodded wordlessly, he opened a cabinet and retrieved a cup for himself. "Where is everyone?"

"Minnie is taking a nap, Tempe's with the baby. She's a little fussy."

"Temperance or the baby?" Harland smiled, overlooking the other man's obvious irritation.

Max didn't smile back. "Christine. I think she's trying to cut her first tooth."

"Ah." Harland blew on his coffee before taking a sip. "She won't like that, will she? It's another first he's missing."

"You were supposed to give the flash drive to Keith." Angry, Max shoved away from the table and stood up. "He was going to get it in the next drop box to Angela. Instead," he glared, "you took Saturday's phone from him and yet somehow, Booth still got it because I watched Tempe text him. What the hell did you do, Harley?"

One shoulder lifted in an off-hand shrug. "I decided to deliver it personally. They have a nice house," he added with a grin he knew would infuriate the old man, "although I don't think he was all that happy to see me in it."

Max groaned and dropped his head for a moment. When he looked back at Harland, his fury was palpable. "Do you have a death wish, son? Booth is not someone you mess with in the best of times and this," he gestured around the room, "is definitely not the best of times. You're lucky he didn't shoot you on sight!"

Harland leaned against the counter, unconcerned. "I think it crossed his mind," he drawled. "Didn't seem to like being told to stay out of my business, either."

"You told him to-" Max swallowed his words and took a deep breath as he tried to calm himself. "You had a conversation with him?"

He nodded. "He's looking for her."

"Of course he's looking for her!" Max yelled, his face reddening. "Do you honestly think telling him to stop will make any difference?"

"It will slow him down," Harland responded, "and maybe cause him to be a little more careful, which gives me time to make sure what I need to stay hidden does." His face was studiously free of expression as he set his cup on the counter. "That's all I wanted."

Max rubbed both hands over his face. "You don't know Booth. All you've done is-"

Harland crossed his arms over his chest. "He was being watched." Max's attention was immediately diverted. "From across the street. The security camera was directed right at them."

Max went on alert. "Who?"

He shrugged again. "Work was too good for the feds. My guess is it was their friend Christopher. It's taken care of." His smile was feral. "I fed a signal back that should have fried every piece of electronic equipment he has. That will keep him busy for a while. In the meantime, I'll have one of the boys run by your daughter's house every two or three days until this is over just to make sure he doesn't try anything else."

"Dammit." Max began to pace restlessly.

Harland considered him silently for a moment. "You know, the offer still stands. He's not hiding - I know where he works . . . where he lives. Just say the word, Max," he whispered lethally. "He's a dead man."

"No." Max shook his head. "No, not yet. I need him alive until Tempe's cleared. Once he's arrested, though . . ." He allowed his voice to trail off as he caught Harland's eye.

Harland looked over the older man's shoulder at Brennan, who had appeared in the doorway and was staring at them in horror. "Prison is a dangerous place," he agreed quietly.

"Dad?" Max spun around in surprise. "Dad, what . . ." She looked from him to Harland in disbelief. "Are you making plans to have Pelant killed? That's not . . . Please tell me I have misunderstood your conversation!"

"Honey-"

"He's killed three people," Harland interrupted. "At least. You really think the world wouldn't be a better place without him?"

Brennan shook her head immediately. "That's not the point. It's not your decision to make! We have laws, courts, a judicial system . . ."

He snorted rudely. "You mean the system that can be bought, if you have enough money? The one that can be manipulated, if you have enough power?" Harland's eyes narrowed on her. "The system you're running from? That one?"

She flushed but held her ground. "Obviously it's not without its flaws but if enough evidence is collected to warrant Pelant's arrest for the murders he's committed then we're obligated to allow the legal system to run its course. You can't wait until he's trapped in prison and then-" Her words stopped abruptly as her gaze shifted to Max. "I forgot. You've done this before," she remembered. "McVicar."

"He killed your mother." Harland drew her attention back to him.

"He was in jail!" Brennan pointed out loudly.

"You want to know how many other people he killed?" Harland asked softly, his eyes hard. "He got what he had coming to him."

"According to whom?" Brennan snapped. "You? You're allowed to make that judgment?" She eyed him disparagingly. "Who do you think you are? Some sort of vigilante superhero?"

"No," he smirked. "The tights chafe."

She was not amused. "Murder is murder," she said pointedly. "What makes you any different from someone like McVicar? Like Pelant?"

Harland straightened abruptly from his casual slouch against the counter. "No one has ever died by my hand or by my order," he answered, his voice cold, "who didn't need to die. Killing one person sometimes saves others." His face turned smug. "If you don't believe me," his smile bared his teeth, "ask Seeley Booth."

His head jerked with the force of her blow, the crack of Brennan's open palm against his cheek reverberating sharply in the sudden stillness of the room. The imprint of her hand glowed hot against his skin.

"Tempe." Max halted at a slicing glance from Harland.

"Don't you dare," she ordered in a harsh whisper that shook with fury. "Don't you dare compare yourself to Booth. He was a soldier. He was following orders." She blinked back angry tears. "He feels the weight of every life he's taken. You . . ." She shook her head and drew a deep breath. "You have nothing in common. He is _nothing_ like you."

"Tempe-" Max tried to defuse the tense atmosphere in the room.

Brennan shrugged off her father's hand. "I'm going for a walk." She glared at both of them with hostility. "Am I going to be followed by guards and dogs?"

"The dogs don't really track all that well," Harland answered, his bland stare offset by the mark of her hand on his face.

Her jaw tight enough to fracture, Brennan stomped away. Harland waited until the door slammed behind her, then rubbed his cheek.

"Ouch!" He cast a rueful grin at Max before following her outside. "She really does pack a wallop." He stepped out onto the porch, paused until an indistinct shadow appeared in the loft of the barn opposite the yard then pointed toward Brennan's slim figure as she disappeared around the corner of the house. A scant minute later, a jean-clad young man slipped out of the barn after her and Harland returned to the kitchen.

"Why do you want her to hate you?" Max asked with a shake of his head.

He shrugged. "Gives her something else to think about, instead of everything he's missing." He dumped the now cold coffee in the sink, put the cup in the dishwasher and headed toward the door that led to his basement workshop. "I'll be downstairs if anyone needs me."

Alone again, Max pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. With a loud, worried sigh, he dropped his head in his heads and closed his eyes.

.

.

.

_u __ok__?_

_Yes__, __I__'__m __fine__. _

_u __sure__?  
somethngs __off. i can feel it  
_

_Yes__, __I__'__m __fine__._

_._

_._

_._

_No__, __I__'__m __not__.  
To __clarify__, __I __am __fine__, physically. __We__'__re __safe__. __Christine __is __happy and healthy__. __We __are __well __taken __care __of __and __very __well __protected__. __We __are __in __no __danger__.  
I just __want __to __come __home__, __Booth__.  
I __never __considered __that __it __might __take __this __long__, __that __we __might __be __separated __for __this __length __of __time__.  
Dad __keeps __telling __me __that __it __will __be __over __soon __but __he__'__s __been __saying __that __since __I __left __and __we're __still __hiding__.  
Why __is __it __taking __so __long__?  
I __want __to __come __home__.  
__Before I met you I spent most of my time alone and I barely noticed. __Now __I__'__m __surrounded __by __people __and yet __I__'__ve __never __felt __so __alone__.  
I __miss __you__.  
I __want __my __life __back__.  
I __want __OUR __life __back__.  
And I __want __to __know __on __which __side __of __the __line __that separates __right from __wrong __I __stand__._

_._

_._

_I__'__m __being __melodramatic__.  
I__'__m __sorry__.  
I__'__m __just __tired__.  
And I miss you.  
_

_ur __breakng __my __heart __bones  
but __this __IS __almst __ovr__.  
i __promise__.  
i __want __u h__ome__ 2 __baby_

_I __love __you__, __Booth__._

_i __love __u_

When Max appeared at her elbow, Brennan looked up at him without expression. After tapping out a few more words to Booth, she got up from the swing and silently put the phone in her father's hand. With quiet dignity, she gathered together the fraying edges of her composure and walked back into the house. A few minutes later, her bedroom door closed with a click.

Max looked from the doorway to the phone in his hand and cursed beneath his breath.

.

.

.

One hundred and sixty-eight miles away, Booth dropped the dead phone he held and picked up his own.

"Give me something, Angela," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Anything. Please."

.

.

* * *

_Poor Brennan, I think the cracks are starting to show. IMO, she's always had a very definite idea of what is right vs. what is wrong and going on the run like this has to have had an effect. How does she go back to believing everything is either black or white when living in the grey area probably saved her life? Those are questions I have and I hope some fanfic writer somewhere decides to tackle them during S8 (because I don't trust HH&Co to go there). Not me - I'm not that good and Psych 101 was way too many years in my past. But someone should. I'd read it!  
_

_Thanks for reading!  
_

_(P.S. __My apologies for the delay in getting this posted. Let's pretend it's still Saturday, shall we? *hand/wave)_  



	14. Week Fifteen

_Ack! The first promo for the S8 premiere is out! _

_omg omg omg omg __omg omg omg omg _

___I almost hate to interrupt the squeeing with another chapter of this hiatus fic but I'm gonna anyway. We have to fill the next three weeks somehow, right? _

___(omg omg omg omg omg omg)  
_

___.  
_

___.  
_

___.  
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* * *

___.  
_

___.  
_

___._

For the first time, she didn't bother with the usual reassurances of being well and safe.

_Has the arrest warrant been withdrawn yet? I've been watching the news but there's been no mention.  
Dad has also been checking with his sources but no one has heard anything concrete as of yet.  
Why are they still waiting?_

_what r u talkng abt? i pract live n DAs ofc, she hasnt said anythg abt droppng chargs_

_What? Why? I don't understand! What else do they need?  
They have proof the surveillance footage was tampered with and now they have the ink on the hair.  
What else do they need?_

_bones slow down. what ink? what r u talkng abt? _  
_the video, ang has been workng on somethng else 4 me so shes a litl bhind on that._  
_mayb if that bastard had done a betr job explang what he did shed b done w/it by now!_

_What bastard?_

_the guy who left the flashdriv. _  
_can we get bck 2 the ink?_

_I've been told they found traces of ink on the hair they recovered from the trunk of my car. It matches the ink Ethan used when he wrote the inscription in the book he gave me._

_Why do I know this and you don't?_

_At a minimum, it provides reasonable doubt that the hair was carried into my trunk on Ethan's body and leaves open the possibility that it was in or on the book instead._

_You don't know about the ink?  
Why? I don't understand._

_i dont no anythg abt any ink and i dont no why but trust me, im gonna find out whats going on as soon as we r done._

_You know how important these few minutes are to me but if it means being able to go home sooner, I'm willing to sacrifice this time now._

_im on it. i love u_

_I love you.  
Wait! Booth?_

_yea?_

_How will I know when it's safe to come home? _

_sounds like u will no b4 i do! _

_Are you being facetious? _

_yea. i love you baby_

_I love you, too. _

Booth tossed the burner aside and immediately picked up his personal phone. "Hodgins!" he barked as soon as the other man came on the line. "What the hell is this about ink on the hair from the trunk of Bones' car? Why didn't you tell me about it?"

There was an instant of silence. "Can we back up?" Hodgins finally asked carefully. "What ink?"

It was Booth's turn to hesitate. "You don't know about it either?" he asked in surprise.

"No," Hodgins replied instantly. "I've told you everything I know, man. I swear. Do you want me to-"

Booth hit the _end call _button abruptly. For a few minutes he stared at their bedroom door without actually seeing it, his jaw tight, the phone gripped so hard it cut into his palm. Suddenly, his movements sharp and jerky, he stuffed the dead phone in his pocket to deal with later and rushed down the stairs, jumping them two at a time. With one quick swipe, he grabbed his car keys from the table in the foyer and was outside at almost the same instant, pausing only to lock up.

He concentrated on driving . . . careful to follow the rules of the road and watch his speed and obey each traffic signal . . . all the while trying to dampen the anger that sizzled along his veins with every passing mile. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he fought the sense of betrayal that filled him.

He turned into the parking lot with a shriek of tires and brakes, threw the car into park, crossed the sidewalk and then climbed the steps with long, fuming strides that ended quickly at a door that trembled beneath his fist.

Almost immediately he heard steps inside the condo rushing toward the heavy pounding.

"What in the . . . Booth?" Cam stared at him in surprise.

"Why didn't you tell me about the ink on the hair?" he bit out through gritted teeth.

She blinked in surprise. "How did you-" A warm flush of red bloomed beneath her golden skin before her lips compressed into a thin line as the anger in his expression finally registered. She stepped back and silently gestured him inside.

He waited until the door closed but his furious gaze never left her. "How I found out doesn't matter - except that it wasn't from you."

"The FBI crime lab analyzed that evidence. I had no-"

"Stop it!" he interrupted harshly. His enraged eyes bored into hers. "Stop it. How could you keep something like that from me, Cam?"

Her chin lifted. "I have to protect the integrity of the lab, Seeley. It's-"

"The lab?" He laughed bitterly. "You think this is about the lab?"

"Oh, please!" she scoffed as she turned away from him. "Do you honestly believe I don't know why Angela took a leave of absence? It wasn't to spend more time with Michael, it was to work on something neither of you wants me to know about!" She whirled back abruptly. "Do you think I haven't watched Dr. Hodgins go over each piece of trace evidence in his possession, again and again . . . over and over . . . hoping to find something he missed on every other examination?"

"Is that why our crime lab handled it?" Booth cut in rudely. "To keep it away from Hodgins so I wouldn't find out?"

"Yes!" Cam cried out, and now she was angry, too. "Yes! You have to stay away from the evidence!" she insisted, jabbing one finger at his chest. "You're too close to Angela and Dr. Hodgins! I have to protect-"

"Do you think she did it?" Booth demanded suddenly. His question sucked the air from the room. "Do you think Bones killed Ethan Sawyer?"

"Wha- No!" Cam stared back at him, dumbstruck. "No, Booth!" she repeated emphatically with a shake of her head. "No, of course not! That's ridiculous. I'm working as hard as-"

"103 days." His husky whisper silenced her as effectively as the wail of a warning siren.

"What?"

"103 days," he spoke again in a voice as gritty as sandpaper from the effort to keep his emotions in check. Behind the rage, in the depths of the dark eyes that held hers, she saw the pain and torment he lived with. "That's how long she's been gone, Cam. One hundred and three days."

"Booth-"

"103 days," he repeated. "Three months, one week, four days." His gaze burned where it touched her face. "What time is it? I'll tell you how many hours it's been."

Her throat closed momentarily. "I know, Seeley. I know this is hard." She forced the words out. "And I want Dr. Brennan back, too, that's why-"

"You know this is hard?" he watched her, incredulous. "You know, and yet you kept something like that from me?" He looked at her as if he didn't know her. "You kept me from finding out about something that could only give me hope?"

Cam hugged her arms against her chest and blinked back tears. "I had to. You have to understand - in order for the lab-"

"This isn't the lab, Cam," he pointed out scathingly. "This is Bones, and she deserves better." He leaned forward and tapped his chest with three fingers. "I . . ." he emphasized, "deserve better from you."

And there it was, finally, what lay behind the sense of betrayal he felt. Lying raw and exposed in the bare inches that separated them, a reminder of the history they shared . . . the memory of a time when they had been more than just friends and colleagues, when he had known her body and she had known his . . . brought forward to this moment, when the last threads of intimacy faded into deception.

The silence was thick and heavy until, at last, she managed to choke out his name. "Seeley . . ."

He shook his head and turned toward the door.

"I have to protect the integrity of the lab," she tried to explain.

Booth looked back over his shoulder as he reached for the handle, and his eyes were hard and cold. "To hell with your lab, Dr. Saroyan."

.

.

.

* * *

_AN: Okay, confession - I don't much like Cam. There's an old joke that a good friend will bail you out of jail but a great friend will be in the cell beside you laughing about how much fun you had. Cam is the friend that will bail you out, lecture you on the way home and then charge interest on the bail money she loaned you. (As I said, I'm not a fan.) It has nothing to do with the little fling she and Booth had (I couldn't care less about his fuck buddies pre-Brennan) and everything to do with how she treated (treats) Brennan, her lack of professional ethics (when it suits her) and the little stunt with Michelle's college applications. For the most part I think I do a pretty good job of keeping my bias out of my fanfic and manage to toe the party line, so to speak. In this case, however, I was feeling a bit crabby while writing and although Hannah is my usual target when such moods come upon me, it was Cam's turn in the crosshairs.  
_

_I know, I know: "Cam is the real hero" blah blah blah. Whatever. She's not the hero of my story.  
_

_(p.s., I have no idea if ink can really be recovered from hair samples but, you know, if they can write a computer virus on the ends of bones, I can find ink on hair. So let it be written, so let it be done.)  
_

_(p.p.s., for purposes of this story, Brennan and Christine left on May 14, the day of the S7 finale.)  
_

_(p.p.p.s., now I'm really done!)  
_

_(Thanks for reading!)  
_

_(Go watch the promo! *fangirl squee!*)  
_


	15. Week Sixteen

Booth exploded out of the conference room, slamming the door behind him with such force that only the extra reinforcement of the bulletproof glass prevented it from shattering into a hailstorm of jagged pieces. Beyond angry, his vision clouded by a tide of red, his long, furious strides ate up the length of the hallway.

"Booth!"

He ignored the sound of his name.

"Booth!"

A muscle in his cheek jumped as his jaw tightened.

"SEELEY BOOTH!" Heads peeked out of offices and popped up from cubicles at the roar of Caroline's voice. "Don't you make me chase you down like you owe me money!"

Reluctantly he came to a stop and turned the heat of his glare on her.

"What!"

"What?" Her head rolled as she eyed him from head to toe, clearly offended at his response. "I don't appreciate your tone! What!" she huffed again. "In case you haven't forgotten, cher," she said acerbically, "we are all on the same team! What was the purpose of that little temper tantrum?" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

Booth shoved his jacket back as he fisted his hands on his hips. "Oh, we're all on the same team, are we?" he snarled sarcastically, his dark eyes black with rage. "Then you tell me what the hell is going on in there!" One hand lifted as a long finger pointed toward the conference room he had just stormed out of. "Explain that to me!"

Neither of them noticed the audience of agents and staff members who were creeping ever closer in their efforts to eavesdrop on the exchange.

"Explain-" Caroline sputtered. "What did you think was going to happen? Did you expect them to apologize?" She lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "Beg your pardon? Maybe help you hang a _Welcome Home, Dr. Brennan! _sign?" Her hands fluttered around the words for emphasis. "Is that the kind of pretty picture you had in your head?"

"I WANT THAT GODDAMN WARRANT LIFTED NOW!" Booth yelled back at her.

"Well, you are just going to have to wait," Caroline hissed. "This isn't just about Dr. Brennan anymore. Or you!" She jabbed at his chest. "This is the federal government, Booth. This is how careers are made . . . and in this case, _unmade_," she added with a grimace. "What you've got in there is a bunch of damn fools trying to figure out how to admit they made a mistake without actually saying 'I made a mistake.' For three months they've been chasing their tails, telling everyone they had that case wrapped up nice and tight, parading all over the talk shows and newspapers and now they have to eat every word. Of course they're going to drag their feet!"

When he opened his mouth to respond, she silenced him with one uplifted hand.

"You will get your press conference, Booth, but it's going to take a little more time." She eyed him with gruff sympathy and then placed a surprisingly gentle hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, cherie. There's nothing you can do."

He glared at her for a moment longer and then, to Caroline's amazement, the anger faded from his expression. One side of his mouth lifted in a contemptuous smile.

"Oh, yes, there is."

.

.

.

* * *

_I know - you waited a whole week for another chapter and all I gave you was 600 little words. I'm really sorry. I feel bad about that._

_Okay, no I don't._

_It's all right . . . go ahead, you can yell at me. Get it out of your system now._

_'Cause next week?_

_Next week you're gonna luuuve me.  
_

_See you next Saturday!_

_:-D  
_


	16. Week Seventeen

_My extra-special thanks to Twitter friend Elaine for looking this over for me! She suffered through the draft so you didn't have to!  
_

_Now, if you'll pardon my mangling the incomparable Bette - fasten your seatbelts. It's gonna be a bumpy ride! :-)  
_

_.  
_

_.  
_

* * *

_.  
_

Still seething, Booth left the Hoover Building and went straight to Angela. For three months he'd let someone else call the shots. The FBI told him who he could talk to and what information he could see. Max controlled how and when he communicated with Brennan. She ignored his repeated pleas - and downright orders - to come home.

And now he was being told he had no say in how and when she returned, when there was no longer any evidence to hold her for a crime everyone already knew she hadn't committed.

No.

He was done.

He was done waiting for someone else to decide when he could get his life back.

"Is this everything?" he asked as he looked over the stacks of meticulously organized research that covered the large table in the Hodgins' seldom-used formal dining room.

"So far," Angela nodded. "But I told you, Booth, I haven't really found anything that fits yet." She huffed in frustration as she picked up and threw aside several pages. "I've looked at the records for thousands of small farms - nothing is owned or leased by anyone named Levi or Parrish or Max or Keenan or any combination of their names." One finger tapped a map of the area surrounding the District of Columbia. "I can't find any property registered to H&N or P&K or M&L . . ." She pulled one graph from beneath several others. "There's nothing around Baltimore or Philadelphia . . ." As she walked around the table, she tossed away sheets marked by various colors that shaded the different plots she'd researched. "I've looked at biblical names, because of Levi. I've looked at anything starting with M, because of Max. There's nothing! Nothing fits!" Angela's voice became almost shrill as she gave vent to her frustration. "The only thing I've found out is that apparently, a lot of people like to name their farms after birds," she grumbled as she pulled out a chair and flopped down. "If you have any suggestions or other ideas," she looked up at Booth hopefully, "I'd love to hear them because I'm at a loss."

"How about dates?" Booth asked as he, too, shifted through the maps on the now messy and disorganized surface. "Birthdays, maybe. Do we know those?"

"Yes," Angela nodded wearily. "I tried them, too, and there's nothing under any numbers I recognize. I even tried Russ's birthday, just in case. Brennan wasn't born yet so-"

Booth straightened abruptly. "What did you say about birds?"

Angela looked at him blankly. "Birds?"

"You said," he reminded her slowly, his eyes narrowing as he considered the possibilities, "there are a lot of farms named after birds."

She frowned. "Well, yea, but not the same one. They're all different, and they're spread out everywhere."

"Show me," he insisted.

"Why?" she asked, confused. "Brennan's mom liked dolphins. I thought of that, too, but I didn't find any property named after anything that swims."

A glimmer of hope began to shine in Booth's eyes. "Because it's a pattern, and it's the only one you've found. Show me."

Angela heaved a sigh, stood up and began shuffling, sorting and restacking the loose pages that lay in a jumble across the polished expanse of the table. "Okay, well . . . here's Sparrow Properties, in Fairfax County. It's small," she pointed out, "but . . . oh, there's another tract here . . ." She tapped another plot. "Whippoorwill Fields. And there's this group in Loudoun County." She drew his attention to several areas she'd colored bright yellow. "Canary I, II and IV. I don't know what happened to III," she shrugged.

"What about around the other markets?" Booth asked, as goosebumps rose on the back of his neck. "Are there more farms like these around the other places you linked to Max or H&N?"

"I don't . . . ummm . . . " More paper rustled as she searched. "Well, they opened a market in Baltimore and . . . here in Anne Arundel County there's Starling Acres. It's not very big either, but . . ." She studied the diagram. "Oh, here's another one, maybe?" She glanced over at Booth. "Dove Hills?"

"Sounds like it," he agreed. He pulled out a chair, sat down and began studying pages at random. "Keep looking," he instructed without looking up. "Bones is hiding somewhere in here." He waved over the table. "We're on to something. I can feel it."

Angela shrugged and sat down again. "Okay, G-man. We'll go with your gut. It's as good as anything I've come up with." For the next hour they compared maps and property lines, their quiet voices accompanied by the shuffle of paper and the scribble of pencils as they made notes across various pages. Outside the window, the morning sun rose higher.

"What's this?" Booth asked as he held up a long spreadsheet.

Angela pulled her attention away from the large graph she'd just unfolded and leaned across the table to get a better look. "A list of deeds registered in Fulton County in '74. But that's near Atlanta," she mumbled. "And I haven't plotted them out yet," she added before she went back to her own task.

"Blackbird Grove," Booth read out loud. "Magpie Park, Hummingbird Crossing."

"I've got Nightingale Farms near Philadelphia." She tapped her pencil against the paper in her hand. "And Nightingale Woods . . . Wait, there's one more. Nightingale Hollow, but it's closer to Pittsburgh . . . "

"Here's a Falcon Orchards," Booth continued, still reading.

"Huh," Angela interjected a short laugh. "Found anything named after a buzzard or a vulture? After what Max did to Kirby maybe-"

Booth's head lifted sharply.

"What?" A line formed between Angela's brows when he continued to stare at her without speaking.

He pushed his chair back. "Show me those farms in Pennsylvania," he ordered as he came around to her side of the table.

"These?" She pushed the printed pages closer to him. "Why?"

Booth examined them carefully and then snapped his fingers. "You got a state map somewhere? I need to see towns."

"I think so," Angela nodded and left the room. She was back in minutes with a large Rand McNally book of road maps. "Is this okay?"

"That'll do," Booth agreed. He flipped pages until he found the state of Pennsylvania. "Now," he looked at her expectantly. "Can we mark those farms on here?"

Confused, Angela looked from the documents to the map and back to Booth. "It's not to scale, Booth. It won't be-"

"I don't care about scale, Angela!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "I just want to know where these-" He tapped the farm graphs with one finger, "are on this-" Another set of taps to the map book, this time a bit harder. "Can you do that?"

"Okay, yea," she nodded and picked up a pencil. "Sure." After a few minutes study, she marked each of the three areas with a heavy X. "Generally speaking," she said, pushing the book toward him, "that's where those farms are. It's not precise but if you let me have a couple of hours I can give you exact-"

Booth stuffed Angela's graphs inside the travel atlas and tucked it beneath his arm. "This is all I need. Thanks, Ange." Spontaneously, he pulled her close and dropped a quick, hard kiss on her lips. "For everything." Before she could react, he was gone.

"Wait! Booth! What does that mean? Did we find something? Did we find her?" she called out as her front door opened and closed. Her hands fell uselessly to her sides. "Urrrrrrgg," she growled. "! I hate it when he does that!"

.

.

.

At home, Booth raced up the stairs to Brennan's office. He tossed the maps in his hand toward her desk and ignored them when they slid across the surface and landed in a flurry of loose pages on the floor beside the chair, his attention firmly focused on the filing cabinets that stood against the wall beside the window. Metal squeaked against metal as he opened and slammed shut drawers full of notes and research and drafts of old journal articles. Muttered curses escaped as he continued to search from one cabinet to the next until he found what he was looking for - a bright red folder with a neatly typed label that read simply _Ruth Keenan_.

In the time it took to walk the three steps to the desk, he skimmed through the contents. He ignored the photos of the skull and the close-up views of the wound that had eventually killed Brennan's mother and pulled out a copy of the report that had been sent to The Jeffersonian with the remains after they had been discovered.

. . . . In Salisbury, Pennsylvania.

His movements somewhat frantic now, he picked up the maps and laid them out on the desk. For a reason no more intentional than it was the first spot his eyes landed on, he placed one fingertip on the mark Angela had drawn in the western part of the state and began looking at the names of the surrounding cities and towns. Almost immediately he found Salisbury. He sank into Brennan's chair with a thud. The small dot was in the exact center of the X.

He shook off the memory of Angela's voice complaining about the lack of scale and stared at the small letters. Max had buried his wife in that spot. He'd placed a small green marble in her hands, wrapped her in linen and put her into the ground at the edge of a cemetery near a property that fit the pattern of others that surrounded a network he'd built to support his criminal activity. And then he'd gone back into hiding and stayed there - until the discovery of her identity pushed him out to protect his children again.

Booth released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and settled back in Brennan's chair.

"You sneaky son of a bitch," he murmured quietly, his eyes locked on that letter X. "You didn't pick that place by accident, that's home, isn't it? You took your wife home to bury her. And now you've got Bones there, don't you?" He spoke out loud, and as he heard the words bouncing off the walls of the quiet room, a feeling of certainty settled over him. "You sneaky son of a bitch," he said again.

Now sure of his next move, he was closing the file when he noticed an edge of clear plastic peeking out from the back. Curious, he pulled it free.

His eyes skimmed the document inside the protective sleeve for several minutes before he realized what he held - a copy of a birth certificate.

A birth certificate for Joy Michelle Keenan.

_"You were seven years old, Russ," Brennan accused her brother angrily. "Old enough to remember. What is your real name? What is MY real name?"_

_He tried to intervene. "Bones, it's right here in the file . . ."_

_"No!" She cut him off, still glaring at her brother. "No! I want him to tell me! What is my real name, Russ?"_

_Resigned, Russ looked from Booth to his sister. "My name was Kyle. Your name was Joy . . ."_

Booth stuffed the document back inside the file and tossed the whole thing aside. "No, your name is Temperance Brennan - and I'm bringing you home."

.

.

.

The quick, heavy fall of footsteps on the porch coincided with Harland coming up from his basement workshop. He stepped into the hallway between the kitchen and the living room already looking toward the visitor knocking firmly on the front door.

"You better have a good reason for interrupting me."

Brennan glanced up from the book she was reading, her attention caught by the tone of his voice. Across the room, Max's curiosity was similarly aroused.

The man who had entered the house stayed in the foyer just out of view of the occupants of the other room. His voice was a low hum of indecipherable words but Harland's reaction was impossible to miss. His hands clenched into tight fists and when his head shot toward Brennan, the hot flash of anger was obvious to everyone.

The very air in the room began to vibrate.

Suddenly wary, Max stood up. "Harland?"

The grey eyes never left Brennan. "He's here." His lips barely moved around the words.

She looked from him to her father and back. "Who's here?"

"Harland." Max's voice held a note of warning.

"Dad?" Unaccountably anxious, Brennan searched her father's face for an explanation for the heavily charged moment of silence that followed. "Who is here-" The thick volume in her lap fell to the floor with a thud when she surged to her feet. "Booth? Booth is here?" Her heart thudded hard within her chest as she looked toward the window at the same time she took one step forward. "Booth is here?"

"Tempe!" Max threw out one hand and froze her in place even as he kept his eyes locked on Harland.

"He's at the cemetery." The words came out between gritted teeth and added an undercurrent of menace to the furious glare that pinned her in place.

"Harland." Max drew the younger man's attention. "Don't do it, son," he advised slowly. "He doesn't know about this place or he'd be here instead of the graveyard. He's just looking for her. I warned you-" He snapped off the words abruptly.

Fear set in as Brennan's gaze fluttered rapidly between the two men. "Don't do what?" she asked nervously. "Dad? Harland?"

Unnoticed, Minnie had slipped out of her bedroom to join them. "That's a federal agent out there, Max. My boy isn't stupid enough to do something that would bring the whole government down on us - are you?" she asked her son pointedly.

Harland's eyes landed briefly on each of them. Brennan couldn't help the shiver that crawled up her spine when she met the frigid silver ice of his stare.

"Harland? What-" she whispered as she struggled to draw breath. "Dad?" she pleaded. "What's going on? If Booth is here-"

Max remained focused on the man in front of him. "Harley."

Another long, tense moment of silence followed. Every occupant in the room seemed to hold their collective breath.

"Get him out of here," Harland said finally, his jaw clenched tight, and pivoted away on one foot. A second letter, the screen door slammed behind him.

Brennan drew in a desperately needed breath of air. "Dad, what on earth-"

Max grabbed her shoulders roughly and turned her to face him. "Tempe, listen to me," he said urgently. "You have to get Booth away from here - do you understand?"

"No," she answered with a shake of her head. "No, I don't. I don't know what's happening-"

"Honey, he can't be here," Max interrupted. His blue eyes held hers resolutely. "He . . . can't . . . be . . . _here_," he repeated slowly as he emphasized each word. "It's not safe." His lips thinned. "For him."

Brennan's breath came in rapid pants as she realized what Max and Minnie had been warning Harland about. "No, Dad . . . Booth isn't . . . he's not here for . . . he wouldn't . . . He just . . . he just wants me," she stammered. "Me and . . . and Christine. That's all. He just . . ."

Max shook her lightly. "You have to get him out of here, honey," he said again. "Now. You remember how to get to the cemetery? Around the cornfield?"

Brennan nodded with short, jerky movements. "Yes. I think so." She closed her eyes and tried to focus. "Yes, I do. I remember."

"Good," Max tried to smiled approvingly. "Go get Booth. Drive east, away from the cemetery and turn right at the four-way stop. There's a diner in town, it's called Murphy's. Wait for me there."

"All right." Brennan struggled to breathe evenly. "East and then right. I understand." She tried to pull away from her father. "I'll just get Christine and-"

"You have to leave now, Tempe," Max cut her off. "Now. I'll take care of the baby."

Brennan drew back, appalled. "No! No, Dad, I can't leave without-"

"Temperance!" Max shook her again. "You have to get Booth away from here!" His fingers bit into her shoulders as his voice rose. "He's in danger! You don't have time to wake her up and get her things together. You have to go! Now!"

"I can't . . ." She fought tears as she began to hyperventilate.

"Do you trust me?" her father asked suddenly.

"Wh . . . I . . . ?" Brennan froze, staring at him as her mouth moved soundlessly for several seconds. Then she nodded. "Yes." She blinked back a rush of tears. "Yes."

"Go get Booth," Max urged again. "Remember - east and then right. I'll meet you at Murphy's." He pulled her into a hug and then pushed her toward the door. "Go."

Head spinning, thoughts whirling, frantic now with fear, Brennan hurried out of the living room. Her steps slowed when Harland's voice reached her from outside.

" . . . in your sight but don't do anything unless you hear it from me personally," she heard him tell the lean, rough figure who waited just off the bottom step. "Got it?"

The man nodded. "I'll wait for your signal."

"Asa." The harsh syllables stopped him before he could turn away. "You've got a twitchy finger," Harland added, his low voice a lethal hiss. "You pull that trigger without my say-so, I'll kill you myself." The man named Asa swallowed hard. "We understand each other?"

"Yes, sir."

Horrified, Brennan stumbled out of the house. Harland looked over his shoulder at her, the lazy, almost laconic gesture at odds with the violence simmering in the hard flint eyes.

Shaking her head, afraid to look away from him, Brennan backed slowly down the handicap ramp installed at the side of the porch. He watched every step she took.

"Temperance?"

The whisper of her name brought her to a skittering halt.

"Run."

.

.

.

Booth prowled through the headstones of the small cemetery, pausing occasionally to read names and dates and bending down when necessary to get a better look at words faded into illegibility by age and weather. His frustration grew as he searched through the neatly laid out plots. He didn't know what he was looking for but whatever it was, it was here. He knew he was in the right place - he knew it. He felt it. Finally he stopped and looked across the stones on either side of him. There was a clear division, he realized, between the older part of the graveyard to his right and the somewhat newer section on his left. The difference was obvious, if you knew what to look for.

He walked that invisible line, staring down at the thick carpet of grass. Somewhere in this vicinity, along the edge of what had been the original outline of the cemetery, Ruth Keenan had been laid to rest in a simple grave that was no more than a hole dug several feet into the earth. Any leftover traces of that spot were long gone now, lost to nature and the more recent dead who had been buried properly but even so, he knew this was where her body had been found.

He loosed a frustrated sigh and lifted his gaze to the farmland and woods that surrounded the small cemetery. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, his gut burned - _Dammit, I know this is it!_ He smacked one fist into the other open palm. He was still missing something, though, the most important piece of the puzzle: where was Brennan? Which one of the homes and farms he passed on his way here was sheltering her?

With an internal shrug he headed back to the SUV, intent on scouring the maps he'd brought with him one more time. If he had to knock on every damn door within a fifty-mile radius, well then, that's what he'd do. He wasn't going home without her. One way or another, this was over.

On the other side of the narrow dirt and gravel lane that separated the two pieces of land, a rustle at the edge of the cornfield opposite the cemetery brushed against his awareness. The sound registered in his ears a few seconds before a flutter of movement tickled the corner of his vision. As if in slow motion, his head turned toward the disturbance.

Brennan burst out from between the tall stalks of corn - and stopped.

The breath he'd just taken hit his lungs with the weight of cement.

"Bones?"

The word was audible only in his own head. Booth stood as if his feet were rooted in the soil, frozen in place by the sudden shock of her appearance. He struggled to breathe, afraid to blink for fear that her image would disappear, as it had so many times in the past three months.

"Bones?" This time the word escaped in a whisper of disbelief.

He saw her race toward him and tried to move, too. He managed to shuffle one foot forward, the movement little more than a disorganized lurch in her direction when his muscles refused to obey the commands screaming from his brain.

And then she slammed into him and he was suddenly grateful his feet were planted in solid stone, because otherwise he might have been knocked to the ground by the impact of her body against his.

Brennan threw her arms around his neck and peppered his face with kisses. "You found me," she whispered over and over. "You came for me. You found me."

Still in shock, he returned the embrace automatically. "Bones?" Her name escaped him in a broken rasp. "Bones?" He cupped her face between rough palms and stared into tear-filled blue eyes. "I . . . You-"

"You found me," she said again, her hands against his cheeks as she copied his gesture. "You found me."

"Oh, God . . ." His arms were a vise around her as he pulled her even closer to his chest. "Bones . . . oh, God. I found you . . ."

His hold on her was hard and rough and she could barely breathe through the pressure around her lungs but Brennan didn't complain. Couldn't complain. She held onto him just as tightly but managed to turn her head enough to continue landing an onslaught of kisses against his cheek and ear and temple while she laughed and cried and told him again and again how much she loved him.

Booth pulled back just enough to take her face in his hands again, his fingers threaded through the long dark hair as he kissed her back. Their faces were both wet with tears, from him . . . from her, they didn't know and they didn't care. They held each other so close the thump of one heart became the drumbeat of the other. One breath was divided by two as they breathed for each other, and shared the thin slice of air that was all either would allow to fit between them.

"I love you . . ."  
"I found you . . . "  
"You found me . . ."  
"I waited too long . . ."  
"I missed you so much . . ."  
"I love you . . ."  
"You look awful . . ."  
"You look beautiful . . ."  
"You found me . . ."  
"I would never stop looking . . ."  
"I'm so sorry . . ."  
"Never again . . ."  
"I love you . . ."  
"I love you . . ."

She was real and warm and solid beneath his hands, her voice in his ears the answer to every prayer he'd sent toward heaven for the last three months.

He was there, his scent filling every breath she took, his arms a hard circle holding her close, the anchor she'd missed so desperately during their long separation.

Finally the initial tidal wave of relief and joy receded and Booth pulled away slightly to look down at her.

"Where did you come from? Where's Christine? Where's your dad?"

Brennan's eyes widened as fear returned. "We have to go!" She spoke in a rush as she reached for his hand and tried to pull him toward the SUV. "Come on!"

He dug in his heels and resisted. "We aren't leaving without Christine, Bones! Where is she?"

"No, Booth!" she pleaded. "You don't understand . . . Dad . . ." She struggled to gather her thoughts. "Dad will meet us . . . he's bringing Christine. We have to go! He said . . . he told me to . . . we're supposed to head east," she explained disjointedly, and in her panic pointed in the wrong direction. "East and then . . . and then right. Dad will meet us. He'll bring her! Please," she tugged at him again. "We have to go!"

"Bones, what in the hell-"

"Booth!" Brennan grabbed the collar of his jacket with both hands. "We have to get out of here. Harland . . . I heard . . . He threatened . . ." Her hands shook against his neck. "You can't be here!" Her eyes were panicked and stricken as she unconsciously repeated her father's words. "You can't be here!" she said again.

The terror in her voice and face finally registered and when it did, a wave of cold fury washed over him. Instantly on alert, his eyes scanned over her shoulder to the fields and trees that surrounded them as he searched for the threat her fright implied. He tried to shove her behind his back and reached for his gun.

"NO!" Brennan yelled instantly. "No! No, Booth!" She covered his hand with hers and refused to allow him to draw his weapon. "No," she implored. "You can't! They might . . . We have to go! We have to go now! You can't be here!" she insisted again, even more fiercely. "We have to go!"

A strange little dance followed, with Booth trying to push her to safety behind him while Brennan struggled to remain in front to shield him with her body. Finally, she planted her feet, locked her hands around his neck and refused to budge.

"Please," she begged, crying, as she burrowed into his neck. "Please, Booth, we have to go. Dad will meet us . . . He promised . . . You can't be here." He could feel her trembling against him. "Please, Booth . . . please . . . you can't . . . it's not safe . . . please . . . I just want to go home . . ."

He gave in unwillingly and rubbed comforting circles into her back while still searching the trees for the threat he knew watched and waited. "Okay, baby," he murmured against her temple, "Okay, we'll go. Come on . . ."

He tried to guide her the few steps to the SUV but she pulled out of his arms and began to push him. "You first, Booth. Get in the car!"

"Bones-"

"GET IN THE CAR NOW!" The last shreds of the fragile hold she had on her self control vanished. Three months of uncertainty . . . three months of hiding, fearful for her safety and that of her father and daughter . . . three months of worry over Booth . . . three months of nights spent racked with guilt . . . Harland's sinister whisper echoing in her memory . . . _Run . . . Run . . . Run . . ._ Her imagination filled her vision with images of men hidden in the trees, guns pointed toward them, of Booth squarely within the cross-hairs of a rifle's sight. "Get in the car!" she ordered again, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Get in the car, Booth!"

Shocked at her outburst, he released her and backed up one step. "Okay," he nodded calmly, holding up his hands. "Okay, Bones . . . I'm going, see?" Still facing her, without releasing her gaze, he walked backwards around the car to the driver's side and opened the door. "See? I'm safe, okay?" He hesitated one more time. "You're coming, right?"

She grabbed the handle closest to her and pulled. "Get in!" No sooner had Booth's door closed behind him than Brennan was inside, as well. She slammed her own door shut and immediately crawled across the center console and clung to him. "I'm sorry," she whispered repeatedly as she pressed her face against his and ignored the uncomfortable position. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to yell . . . I'm sorry . . ." She spoke in a jumble of words. "You don't understand . . . you can't be here . . . you can't . . . we have to go . . . Dad will meet us . . . he promised . . ." Her red-rimmed eyes met his. "I just want to get Christine," she appealed. "I just want to get her and go home, Booth . . . Can we please . . . we have to go . . ."

"Shh," Booth pulled her as close as the confines of the car allowed. "I know, I know . . . it's okay." He pressed soothing kisses into her hair. "We're going, Bones, we're going." He pushed her back far enough to touch her lips with his. "East, then right. See? I remember." Another kiss. "East, and then right. I got it." And another. "We'll meet up with Max and get the baby, and then we'll go home." More kisses punctuated his words. "We're going home," he repeated. "You're going home, Bones. It's over."

She managed to nod as her breathing slowly returned to normal and her frantic heartbeat began to recover its usual pace. "Yes. Yes." Their foreheads rested together. "Home."

"Home," he promised.

.

.

.

Max pulled up behind them just minutes after they rolled to a stop on the street outside the diner. Booth released Brennan's hand only because he had to in order to get out of the SUV. By the time he reached the other car, Max was lifting a drowsy infant from her car seat.

"She never really woke up," he murmured quietly to Brennan, then smiled at Booth. "Here," he offered, "why don't you take her while I put their stuff in your car."

Completely focused on the sleeping baby girl being passed carefully into his hands, Booth hadn't even looked at Max. Tears filled his eyes when she stuck tiny fingers into her mouth and snuggled into the curve of his neck. "She's so big," he whispered, his gaze on Brennan.

Her eyes, too, began to swim as she watched him soak in the first moments with their daughter in three months. "Yes," she swallowed. "She has grown . . . I'm sorry, Booth," she choked out, full of self-recrimination and regret. "I-"

He shook his head and softly kissed the wispy strands of silk beneath his chin. "Don't," he said, careful to keep his voice low as he tried not to disturb Christine. "It's over now. It's over."

Max jiggled the car seat to make sure it was secured properly and then approached them. "You're all set," he announced.

Brennan looked at her father as if seeing him for the first time. "Aren't you coming with us?"

Max shook his head. "No, I need to stick around here for a little while longer, I think." He hugged Brennan and kissed her temple. "I'll see you in a few days, honey."

"Dad," Brennan's voice stopped him before he got back in the car he'd driven to meet them. "Will you tell Min-" She bit off the name without looking at Booth. "Will you tell her I said thank you? For everything?"

He nodded. "Of course, sweetheart."

"Max." Booth hesitated before putting Christine in her car seat. He didn't know what to say. Thank you? His feelings were always complicated when it came to Brennan's father but now . . . the old criminal had stolen his family . . . but he'd kept them safe . . . he'd hidden them away . . . but he'd given them one small way to stay in touch . . . "I-" His voice trailed off.

Max's smile was bittersweet but understanding. "Take your family home, Seeley."

.

.

.

Their bedroom was dark and silent when she clicked off the light and stepped out of the bathroom. Nerves humming, her senses over-stimulated, she padded quietly to the pretty yellow nursery. She expected to find him standing over their sleeping daughter but that room too, except for the baby finally asleep again in her own bed, was empty.

Anxious now, and suddenly more than a little uncertain, she headed downstairs.

Booth stood in front of the door that lead to the patio outside. He was unnaturally still, his back straight, his shoulders tight, the rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible. Brennan glanced past him and looked through the glass at the play of moonlight and shadows on the yard outside and wondered . . . feared . . . what it was he saw.

She hesitated before approaching him. The long drive back had been quiet . . . their hands clinging together . . . Booth's attention divided between her and the car seat behind them . . . She'd wanted to say something but couldn't find the right words to begin, afraid she'd choose the wrong ones and make what she'd done worse. Three months apart - the knowledge that her actions had caused the separation, the unexpectedness of their sudden reunion - manifested itself in what was for her an unusual combination of timidity and disquiet and so she'd said nothing, just squeezed his fingers harder and taken what comfort she could from the answering pressure from his own hand.

Once home, he'd pulled straight into the garage and warned her that she had to stay hidden for a few more days, his voice bitter and still angry when he described the political gamesmanship being played, the way he'd fought for her . . .

"But you're back now." He broke off his complaints abruptly and trailed his fingers down her cheek. "So when they finally get their heads out of their asses . . ." He drew in a deep breath. "We'll have to get you a lawyer, a good one," he continued, "just in case they want to make something of you leaving . . ." His voice faded away. He shook his head briefly. "But you're home now," he repeated, making the words sound like a vow. "We'll deal with whatever comes next, one day at a time."

She nodded and agreed but then she'd gotten out of the car and the first thing she saw was her sparring bag. Far from pristine when she left it had at least been whole but now - she couldn't help the shocked gasp that left her throat as she stared at the battered and mangled bag held together by ribbons of duct tape, split in places and spattered here and there with dark stains of . . .

Her eyes flew to his to find him standing beside his open door, watching her. She glanced again at the badly damaged bag and back to him. "Booth," she whispered, or at least she thought she had. She'd become so used to saying his name to herself, to holding silent conversations with him, that she couldn't be sure if her ears or her head heard the word. Either way, he didn't respond and once again, she had no words. She'd left him. She'd left him alone with nothing but fear and anger and frustration and guilt and if the sight of the bag - if seeing the physical manifestation of how he'd managed those feelings was disturbing, well . . . she had only herself to blame. So she swallowed whatever she might have said.

"I'll get Chrissy," he offered. "Is that okay? Can you carry her things?" There was nothing to do but nod and agree again, and so she'd resolutely turned away from the scarred and torn vinyl and followed them inside.

The rest of the evening had been a battle to regain a sense of normalcy, an awkward search for what had been familiar and now, after her long absence, felt so very _un_familiar. She managed, as best she could. Booth wanted to do everything for Christine, to get back some of what he had missed. Fortunately she was a happy, easy child and the big man who held her in gentle hands was just one more person who lavished on her the love and affection she accepted as her due. When he stood her on his knee and yipped at the feel of the two tiny, razor-sharp teeth on his finger, when she offered him a big smile and a slobbery gurgle of laughter, Brennan once more simply nodded and agreed as he insisted the actions were proof the baby remembered him, and said nothing about a six-month old's cognitive memory skills.

Christine's presence made their first hours together both easier and more awkward but now, with the initial rush of relief and blur of activity over, the evening settled around them and their daughter slept in her room above them and they were finally alone, and instead of waiting for her beside the bed they hadn't shared in three months, Booth stood in a dark room looking into the night, an unmoving statue of flesh and blood, hiding his thoughts behind an inscrutable mask.

And still, she had no words. The decision she'd made to leave stretched between them, the chasm wide and deep and uncrossable, filled with dangers she wasn't even sure she would recognize until it was too late.

But she had to try. She drew a breath, opened her mouth and stepped into the abyss.

"I've been here before." His voice prevented anything she might have said. It was just a hint above a whisper but in the silence that surrounded them, she heard him clearly.

Tentatively, she inched closer.

"Christine, upstairs sleeping," he continued when she stood beside him. "You," his head turned toward her, "right there. Home." His throat worked as he swallowed and looked outside again. "And then I wake up." In his profile, she saw his eyes blink rapidly and her own tears started to form. "And you're gone . . . and it was just another dream." When he faced her again, the moisture in his eyes did nothing to dampen the fire that burned there. "Are you real this time, Bones?" His words fractured as he spoke. "Will you still be here when I wake up?"

Her heart shattered at the pain he couldn't hide. She wanted to tell him about the tormented nights she'd spent, about the mornings she'd reached for him, about the misery and loneliness and guilt that had felt at times overwhelming . . . but instead she grasped for what suddenly felt like the only solution to a fear that was all too real for her, as well.

"Let's not sleep."

He frowned, not understanding, and she shuffled closer with a beseeching hand on his arm. "Let's not sleep," she said again, and she didn't care that her tears had begun to overflow. "We can . . . let's stay awake . . . We don't have to sleep," she offered, "We can . . . we can talk," she whispered, her words as broken as his had been. "I'll . . . I'll tell you everything." Her voice trembled as the shimmer in her eyes pleaded with him. "Anything you want to know, I'll . . . You can . . ." She sniffed and tried to draw a breath that didn't break down with every exhale. "You can tell me what it . . . what it was like for you . . . I want to know . . ." She laid everything she felt at his feet, raw and exposed, at the mercy of his understanding, offering compassion as she pleaded for forgiveness. "And tomorrow . . . when tomorrow comes and . . . and we're both still here . . . Tomorrow we . . . we can start again . . ."

She couldn't continue. Her unsteady, tear-filled breathing was the only sound in the room for a long moment. Then Booth reached for her hand.

"Come here."

He led her to the living room, to the ugly yellow leather chair she hated, the one they'd had their first "yours/mine/ours" argument over when he insisted it make the transfer from his apartment to their new home. He settled into it, then pulled her down on his lap.

"Where did you go when you left here?"

She looped her arms around his neck, curled into the warmth of his body and took solace from being near him again. "I made it to a small town just outside of Richmond before I couldn't drive any further . . ."

Her fingers stroked the short hair on the back of his scalp or gently rubbed along his neck as he watched her speak.

Minutes . . . hours . . . ticked by. He took one of her hands in his . . . threaded their fingers together . . . watched his thumb rub circles into her palm.

He sometimes asked carefully phrased questions and in return she gave carefully worded replies and they each knew that another day, or another night, would come when honesty would be stripped bare but for that moment, while they tried to hold old dreams at bay and survive the darkness without losing each other, the small details were enough to fill the hours.

"There was a little adobe house in Phoenix . . ."  
". . . desk duty, but I closed four of those old cases before . . ."  
"A moose climbed up on the porch . . ."  
" . . . started going to my meetings again . . ."  
"Angela should have made sure you were eating . . ."  
" . . . Jared has called a lot . . ."  
"I think you should apologize. Dr. Saroyan was in a difficult position . . ."  
" . . . I figured it was Max who put that bow in her hair . . ."  
"Dad took us there about 8 weeks ago . . ."  
". . . I'll buy you a new sparring bag . . ."

.

.

Booth surfaced slowly from sleep but kept his eyes closed against the weak rays of sunshine peeking in from the window. His head hung at an uncomfortable angle, he realized as awareness returned in increments, and his right leg burned with pins and needles. _Dammit_, the thought rose through the last haze of slumber, _I fell asleep in the chair again._

Suddenly he felt the whisper of warm breath against his neck and at the same time, the tickle of soft strands of hair beneath his chin. His eyes popped open as all vestiges of sleep disappeared in a flash. A quick, jerky twist of his head . . . and there she was.

Relief escaped in a loud rush of air as his arms tightened around her. He closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer of thanks as Brennan absently rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He knew instantly when the same moment of sudden awareness hit her.

Her lashes lifted and he was immediately trapped in sparkling, brilliant, beautiful blue.

"It's morning," his whisper was as rough as gravel. She glanced over her shoulder at the window and then quickly back to him. "You're still here," he added, his face alight with happiness.

"So are you," she breathed, as her eyes filled again with her own sense of relief and guilt and gratitude. "Booth, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry-"

"Shhhh." He lowered his face to hers and covered her lips with his own. "You're home now, that's what matters." Another kiss. "Shhh." And another. "Shhh." Gradually his kiss became more than just a way to silence her apologies. She was in his arms again, her body under his hands no longer a dream but warm and soft and responding to his caress with an urgency that fed his own hunger.

Her fingers fluttered against his cheeks then locked around his neck as she burrowed closer. Heat rose in waves . . . surrounded them . . . thickened the air they shared until they were panting and lightheaded and the blood ran hot through their veins.

She didn't have enough hands to cover as much of his smooth, hard skin as she wanted to touch.

He couldn't get close enough to her, no matter how tightly he wrapped her against him.

He filled her senses as his kiss devoured her.

She burned where their bodies met and begged for more.

He shifted in the chair to allow room for her knees as she straddled him and groaned into her skin when heat pressed against hardness as he surged up to meet her. She gasped in pain when he ripped the elastic band from the messy ponytail she wore and then hummed with pleasure when he wrapped the silk of her hair around his hand and jerked her head back, opening her throat to the graze of his teeth and lips across her neck.

She pushed the t-shirt he wore up his chest, where it bunched and tangled because he refused to let go of her even long enough to pull it over his head.

His hands slipped beneath the thin camisole she wore, his fingers trailing ribbons of sparks as they slithered up the fragile bones of her ribcage.

They were rough and frantic . . . starving for each other . . . desperate for what only the other could give . . .

And upstairs, a baby began to cry.

Lost in each other, it took a moment before the sound penetrated the curtain of love and lust that surrounded them.

Simultaneously, their faces turned toward the stairs, their cheeks pressed together as they drew in panting breaths and struggled for control. Booth turned her head back to his for another hard kiss.

"Five minutes," he groaned, bending his head to her breast.

"I only need three," she countered, arching back to give him greater access.

Their daughter's cries grew louder.

"I know she has rotten timing," Booth laughed breathlessly as he released her, "but that's the most beautiful sound I've heard in a long time."

Brennan responded in kind and rested her forehead against his. Another kiss followed, one that threatened to draw them back into the vortex as the volume above their heads increased audibly.

Once more, they separated.

"Wow, she's mad," Booth chuckled quietly, but Brennan was still in his lap, beneath his hands, and even with the noise from upstairs, he couldn't let her go.

"She's very demanding in the morning," Brennan agreed as she bit into the rough, unshaven skin under his jawline and her fingers slipped beneath the loose cotton pants he wore.

Christine was not used to being ignored and, unconcerned with her parents' hunger for each other, expressed her unhappiness in the situation with another loud wail.

Brennan collapsed reluctantly against his chest then reached up for another kiss. "She will take a nap in three hours," she whispered.

"Three hours?" Booth repeated, pulling at her lower lip with his teeth.

"Her sleep schedule is very regular," she nodded as she looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

A pair of small feet kicked against the rails of the crib, the clatter adding to the din coming from the nursery.

Booth grinned broadly. "Maybe we better go get her before she turns green and tears her room up."

Brennan drew back slightly, her brow furrowed. "I don't know what that means."

There was a split second of silence and then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her hard against him. His laughter echoed around the room. "I love you, Bones," he said, the words a husky whisper against her mouth as he kissed her again.

She held his face within her hands, her expression suddenly serious. "I love you, Booth. I'm sorry-"

He silenced her with one finger on her lips. "No more, baby. You're home. We go forward from here."

In the room above their heads, their daughter raged at the continuing injustice of being left alone when she was hungry and wet.

Booth arched an eyebrow. "Three hours?"

"Three hours," Brennan promised.

After another kiss, he reluctantly lifted her from his lap, stood and reached for her hand.

"I'm going to embarrass her with this story one day," he grinned as they headed toward the stairs. "But at least we'll make it to the bed now."

"I'm almost sorry for that," Brennan murmured, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "I was just starting to like that chair."

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_So . . . ta da? :-)  
_


	17. Week Eighteen: Epilogue

_I've heard it said that to end a thing well, you must go back to the beginning __. . . _

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He was alone when he woke and for just an instant, felt the familiar bite of fear.

Four days of having her home . . . of having _them _home . . . had started to blunt some of the sharp edges on the memories of a summer spent apart but only some of them and the pain was still there, lurking just below the surface. It spiked at unexpected moments, adding barbs to otherwise innocent remarks or a touch of heat to simple questions. Damage had been done. The hurt was real and the reminders stung.

But the regret was genuine, too, and apologies were swiftly offered and just as quickly accepted. Neither recalled those weeks of separation without also remembering how they'd fought their way back to each other and it was that knowledge they clung to when the wounds bled anew. They were the center and they were determined that the center would be strong again.

And so he felt that momentary jab when his eyes opened on the emptiness beside him but then he saw her crumpled pillow and noticed the book on her nightstand and the sweater discarded haphazardly across the arm of the chair beneath the window and he breathed easier. He wasn't alone, he was just . . . alone.

Relaxed now, he yawned and stretched and took advantage of having the big bed to himself by spreading out from corner to corner. He turned on his side, settled deeper into his pillow, tucked hers into his chest and prepared to steal a few more minutes of sleep. Almost immediately, though, his eyes popped open again.

From the small speaker sitting on the dresser, he heard the murmur of Brennan's voice as she played with Christine. The simple joy of the moment spread a smile across his face.

"This color is yellow . . . this color is green . . . Would you like to hold . . . Oh! Very good, Christine! Your fine motor skills are developing exactly on schedule . . . Would you like to try that again?" The faint sound of clapping echoed in stereo from the monitor and from the open bedroom door. "I'm so proud of you! You are very advanced for six months . . ."

All thoughts of extra sleep now gone, Booth rolled to his back with another jaw-splitting yawn. He slanted a quick glance at the clock on his bedside table and found himself snared by the sight of the black and white photo he still kept there, the one that had mysteriously appeared in his grandfather's room on the Father's Day he spent alone.

And then it hit him . . . it was Saturday morning.

Brennan looked up from her seat on the floor when he appeared in the doorway of Christine's nursery. The baby sat in front of her, propped up in the middle of a U-shaped pillow in case she wobbled in her newly acquired skill of sitting up by herself. A pile of brightly colored blocks lay between mother and daughter.

"Good morning," she smiled up at him. "You're up early," she indicated the jeans and t-shirt he wore. "I had planned to let you sleep in today."

He grinned back as he stepped fully into the room. "Morning," he replied as he squatted for a grownup kiss from her, followed by one on the finely spun silk of their little girl's hair. "Actually," he remarked casually, "I have something I need to do this morning so I'm headed out for a little bit."

He saw it in her eyes, that same spark of worry and fear that had affected him earlier, and then he saw her resolutely push it aside. "Will you be gone long?"

He reassured her with another touch of his lips on hers. "Not more than an hour or so at most. Want me to bring back some breakfast?"

Brennan shook her head. "I thought I'd make pancakes. Dad taught me his secret recipe."

"Now that sounds good," he answered and couldn't resist stealing another, deeper kiss. "I love you."

"I love-"

A high-pitched screech interrupted their tender moment, drawing laughter from both of them. Christine, busy trying to cram the thankfully-too-large yellow block into her mouth, returned their attention by repeating the noise.

"How about earplugs?" Booth laughed. "We might need some of those." His knees creaked as he stood up. "I won't be long," he promised again.

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There was no need for subterfuge this time, no reason to wander through the different stalls and shops and no excuse to buy items just to fill a bag of props.

He parked in the first available space, entered the market through the first door he came to and wasn't at all surprised when he turned the corner and the farmer's eyes were already on him, watching his approach.

There was another shopper there and Booth waited patiently as the middle-aged woman dithered over her selections. The farmer shot him one wary glance and then ignored him until the customer turned away, her shopping basket full.

When they were alone Booth selected an apple at random and held out the $20 bill.

The sharp grey eyes narrowed as he looked from the money to Booth.

"Keep the change."

With a lift of one eyebrow, the farmer nodded and took the $20. It quickly disappeared into his back pocket.

Booth left his hand hanging between them until the other man reached out and shook it firmly. "Thank you," he said simply. When the farmer would have let go, Booth held on and leaned in close.

"But you tell that other son of a bitch," he added, in a low voice that was as much promise as threat, "if I ever see him around my house - or Bones - again, he'll get his chance to hit me back."

The farmer's lips twitched as laughter sparkled in his eyes. "I'll pass the message along," was all he said.

Booth released the work-roughened hand. "You do that." He tossed the apple casually into the air and after catching it with a snap of his palm, polished it against his shirt, took one large bite and walked away. His family was waiting for him at home.

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As soon as Booth turned the corner, Harland stepped out from the door at the back of the stand.

"Cocky bastard, isn't he?"

Keith rolled his eyes. "I noticed you stayed hidden 'til he was gone."

Harland picked up a crate of corn and carried it to the correct table. "Well, she just got him back," he shrugged casually. "I didn't want to send him home all bruised and bloody."

"Uh huh."

"What?" Harland stopped, his hands resting at his hips, and stared at his older brother. "I could take him."

This time, Keith laughed out loud. "I'd pay good money to see you try," he said pointedly. "And so would a lot of other people."

Harland shook his head and let the subject drop as the two men finished unloading the rest of that day's fresh deliveries. When they were done, he placed a small black flash-drive on the battered work table. "For the Fletcher project," he explained, when Keith raised his eyebrows. "And make sure you tell Linda I was disappointed in her work on the Murphy job - and I don't like being disappointed."

Keith grunted in response then huffed in exasperation when he saw Harland's thoughtful gaze follow the path Booth had taken out of the market. "Hey," he barked. "Max said to leave 'em alone," he reminded his brother when the younger man looked back at him.

Harland grinned broadly. "He did, didn't he?" He slapped Keith on the shoulder. "Don't forget about dinner tomorrow. Now that everybody is gone, Mom expects us all there on Sunday, as usual."

He grabbed an apple of his own, polished it against one sleeve and took a large, crunching bite. With a whistle that trilled like the song of a robin, he sauntered out of the market.

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* * * The End * * *

(sort of)

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_(__Warning__: __pretentious__, __self__-__indulgent __Author__'__s __Note __ahead__!)_

Pardon the length here but I'd like to say 'thank you.'

Thank you for keeping me company while I kept myself busy this summer with this little story, one that wasn't even supposed to *be* a story but refused to go away and leave me alone.

Thank you for following along with only minimal grumbling while I moved it around all over the website.

If you left a review, thank you. If you alerted or favorited it, thank you. If you never said a word but still came back every week to read the new chapter, thank you. If you sent an email asking for backstory, thank you (because I've got backstory!).

Thank you for letting me play with Minnie and Bird again and for giving me a reason to create Harland, who may be my new favorite OC (sorry, Lisa!). Thanks for reading a story that had Max Keenan's fingerprints ALL over it, because I do unashamedly love me some Max!

And especially, thank you for saying such nice things about this story - in public, even! You guys make me feel like a real writer which (pardon my Sweets-ism) is wicked cool. Especially when those nice things came from women like sunsetdreamer, eitoph, NatesMama, AmandaFriend and Some1tookmyname, who are the writers I want to be when I grow up.

We made it through the summer! Two more days and _Bones_ will return and Booth will really get his family back! Woo Woo! If you're on Twitter and don't mind the occasional profanity-laced tirade and repeated begging for a James Marsters guest-appearance, I'm UK_MJ - come fangirl squee with me! Two more days, people! Two. More. Days and we're back, bay-beeeeeee!

And one more time, thanks for reading!


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